Silver and Gold
by phantomphan2000
Summary: "I have to kill you. Is that what you're saying? Because my son's pinned to a window and my parents are the same age as me and you're a magical, giggling imp! What the hell, Gold?" When the favor comes due, Emma gets more than she bargained for. And Mr. Gold won't take no for an answer.
1. The Serpent: Opportunist

**A/N: With several other in–progress stories, I really shouldn't be posting this . . . but I couldn't resist. **

_**Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT.**_

**Summary: When the favor comes due, Emma gets more than she bargained for. And Mr. Gold won't take no for an answer.**

_But I have promises to keep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep._

(Robert Frost, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening)

**Opportunist**

Emma sighed as she rifled through yet another stack of papers on the mountainous desk in her office. Case after case, file after file jumped out at her until the black lettering blurred together in dizzying patterns. In a pure fit of frustration, Emma slammed the pile back down on the desk, causing several others to rain down on the floor, littering the small space with crumpled pages. Pressing two fingers to the bridge of her nose, the Sheriff slumped back into a chair.

She didn't think she was doing all that bad for working straight through the day and well into the night. Accepting the badge had felt like a victory at first—she _had_ shown Henry she could win by playing fair, hadn't she?—but Emma knew she couldn't go on like this forever, even if it meant she could see her son from time to time. The kid—_her_ kid—was also the Mayor's kid. Not biologically, but Regina might as well have been. Because if she was being honest with herself, Emma had no idea how to be a mother, let alone be a role model for Henry. Hooking that badge to her belt rooted her to the town indefinitely. It meant Emma Swan had a reason to stay in Storybrooke, to protect her son in all the ways that mattered, try as the Mayor might to keep Henry away from her.

But she'd had help becoming Sheriff. And Emma didn't know when she would ever stop owing the local pawnbroker.

The shrill ring of the phone brought her back to reality, slicing right through her thoughts. She dodged the corner of the desk, hurrying to answer the call, wondering who would need her assistance so late in the evening.

"Sheriff Swan," she breathed into the receiver.

"Emma?" said a trembling voice on the other end.

It took only a second to recognize. Her brows furrowed, mouth pulling down at each corner. "Ruby?"

"Emma, please hurry," the girl whispered rapidly. "He has a gun!"

The Sheriff heard a click, and the line went dead.

Emma hopped in the car and floored her way to the diner, thankful for the ever present lack of traffic, one hand on the wheel, the other clutching her gun. The weight of it in her hand felt strange, and she realized with a jolt she might actually have to use the weapon for the first time, depending on what sort of situation she rushed in on. Who could Ruby have meant? Even though the clock tower told her it was well past midnight now, Emma hoped Henry was at home, fast asleep in bed, dreaming. And _not_ at Granny's.

Emma slammed on the brakes and jumped from the squad car, leaving the door on the driver's side open, vehicle running. She trained her gun on the front door leading into the diner, praying she wouldn't have to shoot anyone, her heart pounding loud enough to block out all thought. The Sheriff slipped inside, a tiny tinkling of bells above her head announcing her arrival.

The place was eerily quiet.

She took note of the few people sitting at booths and tables—innocent residents of the town. They went through the motions of drinking, nibbling on bits of food, reading the most recent copy of the _Daily Mirror_, but did not dare to speak. Emma raised a finger to her lips, anyway, signaling for them to remain quiet.

Her eyes roved over the counter. And there, sitting on a stool, was the very man who had posted his own bail a mere twenty–four hours prior.

"More," he growled roughly, pointing to the empty glass on the counter. With shaking hands, Ruby stepped forward and filled the container nearly to the brim, amber–colored liquid splashing over the sides. She shrank back and away, slowly inching towards Emma, who soundlessly motioned for her not to move any further.

Emma's eyes locked onto the gun next to him, recognizing it from the time she'd surprised him at his house after it had been broken into. With the image of the man beating Moe French sharp in her mind, the Sheriff stepped forward, steadily keeping her own weapon pointed at the man dressed in a black suit, clicking off the safety.

"I never would've taken you for an angry drunk, Mr. Gold."

At that, he simply drained the glass, took up his cane in one hand, the gun in the other. "Now, now, Ms. Swan, your presence here is hardly necessary," Gold mumbled exasperatedly, lazily holding the gun sideways in his hand and waving it around carelessly as he spoke. "You do see no one has been harmed?" He gestured to the few civilians scared out of their wits behind him.

"Yet," Emma remarked, smoothing her face into an indifferent mask, determined to retain control. She held out an empty hand. "Give me the gun, Gold."

The man laughed darkly once, fire dancing in his chocolate eyes, which seemed to melt instantly. "No, I don't think so. Not just yet." His cane tapped rhythmically as he took a few confident steps toward her, the only sound to fill the silent void that had so uneasily settled over the diner. He stopped close enough for Emma to catch the overwhelming smell of alcohol on his breath, mixed with a wild musty scent she recognized, reminding her of the unpleasant odor of unwashed sheep—lanolin. With a loud _click_, Mr. Gold reminded her he was armed. "You see, Sheriff, I own this town. And, therefore, I own _you_."

A flicker of a shadow passed over his eyes, so fast Emma thought she might have imagined it. But no, he was smiling at her now, a couple of gold teeth sparkling brilliantly in the light, threat looming above her like a rain cloud, drenching Emma Swan with fearful anticipation. She wondered briefly if he had cracked and gone mad, finding it difficult to acknowledge a midlife crisis. It certainly would explain the large consumption of whiskey, though his speech and demeanor seemed unaffected by the substance, very much the same. So why the hostility? Why have her at gunpoint?

"True or not, this late night show can still earn you a one–way ticket back to that cell." She allowed herself a half–smile despite the fact that she knew he would likely bail himself out if it came back to the silver bracelets. Everyone in town knew he had the means to do so. But she was the Sheriff—the one who was bound to enforce the rules Regina made, the rules _he_ would always bend. And occasionally break. "Wouldn't want that, now would we?"

Gold, the fight draining slowly out of him, lowered the weapon. He lifted his cane—at which point Emma tightened her stance—then let the end of it touch the floor with a soft, wooden _tap_, abruptly business–like. "Perhaps," he drawled, "we could strike a deal."

It took a great amount of self–restraint to remain where she was. Make a _deal_? At Granny's? While waving weapons around? It was neither the time nor the place. But, Emma reasoned, if it was the only way to keep people from getting hurt. . . . "What do you want?"

He leaned heavily on his cane for a moment, staring at her as if he could see right _through_ her. Like he knew she was more than willing to play his little game if it meant saving innocent lives. "What I want is for you to escort me back to my residence. And there are a few matters which, I believe, we need to discuss."

Emma's jaw clenched almost subconsciously, the way it always did whenever words seemed to snake their way out of his mouth and coil themselves around her, squeezing the air from her lungs, hissing softly in both ears. They had travelled down this road once before, and the oncoming self–loathing was inevitable. Repressing a shudder, she asked, "In exchange for . . . ?"

"Oh, I don't know . . . " That smug little grin of his suddenly made an appearance. Gold shrugged. "I suppose I'll owe you a favor."

While the proposition meant absolutely nothing to her, and she knew _he_ knew as much, she decided she would have to settle for the price, however strange it might seem. Besides, what more could he possibly offer? Emma had promised herself never to sink to his level again if she could avoid it, but she really wasn't in the position to negotiate at the moment, especially with the devil's scrutinizing glare fixed solely on her, awaiting an answer. The Sheriff held out her hand again. "Fine. Hand it over, and I'll take you home."

He placed the gun carefully in her hand with obvious content. He paused then—Emma supposed for dramatic effect—knuckles brushing against her palm to show who was really in control, who could easily take the weapon back and massacre the town if he felt the need. "Thank you, Ms. Swan."

Emma followed him towards the door, then stopped and turned back to say something to Ruby—and also to Granny, who must have emerged from the back—though she had no idea what she possibly _could_ say. "Don't worry, I'll be back after he passes out"? "Don't worry, he'll pay for any damages"? "Don't worry, I've got everything under control"? Finally, she nodded awkwardly once in an assuring sort of way, and walked briskly out into the cold night.

He was waiting in the squad car on the passenger side, fiddling with the top of his cane, which, Emma noticed, was also inlaid with pure gold. She wondered fleetingly if he had purposefully changed his last name since moving to the town, or if that had always been his name, if he had always lived in Storybrooke. The pawnbroker rapped on the glass window, mumbling something about the fragile material.

She parked outside the large, empty house. As she climbed out of the vehicle, she witnessed Mr. Gold's futile attempts to join her. Emma circled around to help him from the squad car, grabbing one forearm, which she felt a great deal of heat radiating from, like an open fire. Once he had gained his footing, he pushed her away, hard, though she quickly grabbed his shoulders as he stumbled, even with the support of his cane. Only when she had fished the key out of his pocket and opened the front door did she realize he was trembling.

She set him down on the couch, knowing it would be impossible to lead him any further. Sweat had started to bead on his forehead, but he didn't seem to notice. He just stared up at her as he leaned back, his thin hair forming two perfect curtains on either side of his head, falling behind his ears. And, when he _finally_ closed his eyes, Emma decided to leave. _To hell with his deals._ But as she turned to go, she hesitated, her gaze falling upon the cane.

His hand held fast to her wrist once she'd wrapped her fingers around the wooden object—an ironclad grip. "Stay," Gold said, voice laced with a dark undercurrent, one that sent an involuntary shiver up Emma's spine. "Please, Sheriff. Have a seat."

She knew she could refuse and walk right out the door. Forget the whole thing ever happened. But an overwhelming sense of curiosity kept her rooted to the spot, eyes locked with the man who had given her many things, while at the same time, had left her with virtually nothing at all. How could she trust him? How could she know he wouldn't take the little she had left?

But what could he really do now? With a bad leg and one too many shots of whiskey, Emma figured she could overpower him if he chose to put up a fight. And, to add to the bright side, she still had both guns.

For the first time since she'd come to Storybrooke, Emma had stumbled upon a win–win situation.

The Sheriff sighed and relaxed her tense muscles. "Just this once." She settled into a nearby chair, folding her arms. "And only because you won't remember any of this in the morning."

He laughed at that, really laughed. The sound was foreign to her ears. "Ah, dear Emma." Mr. Gold glanced at a grandfather clock in the corner of the room, then back at his guest. "Have I ever mentioned how much I enjoy our little chats?"

If it had been anyone else—_anyone_ but Gold—she would have smiled. But every time she looked at him, all she could see was a sly grin, a flash of gold, and her own empty outstretched hands. Whatever he asked her to do to repay the debt, she knew she must comply. She'd only arrived a few months ago, and already she had made a deal with the devil. And there was no winning, no losing, no amending the agreement. Neither could gain full power over the other.

And so would they forever dance in circles, never getting straight to the point.

"What more can I offer you, Mr. Gold?" Emma asked, failing to keep her voice from shaking slightly with rage. Any politeness she had intended to convey had evaporated faster than smoke.

The pawnbroker made a fist and pretended to study the various golden bands on his right hand. "I have decided that I would like to make my request regarding your debt to me," Gold announced. He smiled knowingly as he watched her expression change, getting to his feet and hobbling over to a large cabinet. He grabbed the handles of each door, pulling them outwards, leaning on a small mahogany table for support. "I hope you were satisfied with your end of the bargain?"

Emma instantly opened her mouth to respond, but found a lump had formed in the back of her throat. Swallowing hard once, she tried again, saying as firmly as possible, "Yes. I _am_."

"Good." Mr. Gold retrieved what he had been searching for from the cabinet. Due to the dimness of the room, Emma couldn't quite make out the shape of the object. But the old man took his time as he limped over to her, and the Sheriff was convinced the delay was deliberate, though she could not have proven it. She _could_, however, detect the amusement in those dark, prying orbs of his. Like his eyes were smiling, too. Almost glowing. "Here we are," he said, producing the offering.

Emma glanced uncertainly from the wooden box to the pawnbroker, expecting some form of trickery, waiting for him to pull the rug out from under her—waiting for the punch line. When she saw his mouth had straightened into a thin, serious crease and that his jaw had clenched, Emma curled her fingers around the box and gently lowered it to her lap. Mr. Gold lingered for a moment as she studied the strange silver lock, then retreated back to the couch. He folded his hands carefully and sat forward, a silent observer, watching and waiting for her reaction.

She smoothed her hand over the top, ran a thumb over the serpent–shaped latch. "Is there a key?"

For a moment, Emma thought he would burst out laughing at her ridiculous question—wouldn't objects with locks normally have keys to open them?—but Gold remained deadly quiet for several moments, staring at the wooden case. "Yes," he finally replied, looking down at his clasped hands. "There is a key."

Emma took note of the sudden melancholy tone of his voice, words of meaningless comfort crossing her mind. But she bit her tongue, promised herself to be more patient, make her curiosity less apparent, face expressionless. And so the Sheriff did not speak.

Though she did not have to wait long.

"There shall come a day when you'll receive the key, Ms. Swan. I cannot give a specified time or manner in which it will present itself to you. However, once it arrives, you will open the case. You will take what's inside without question. You will immediately contact me."

Emma paused, absorbing the information, searching his face for any signs of deceit. She frowned when she found none, eyebrows stitching together. "And then?"

Mr. Gold sighed heavily, closed his eyes, and rested his head against the soft back of the sofa. "You will do precisely as I ask, Sheriff."

Emma found she did not care as she headed for the door, fingers itching to open the box.

For, just like rules, promises were meant to be broken.


	2. The Hope: King Cobra

**_Disclaimer: Obviously, I don't own OUAT._**

_Who cares if you disagree? You are not me_

_Who made you king of anything?_

_So you dare tell me who to be_

_Who died and made you king of anything?_

_...Let me hold your crown, babe_

(Sara Bareilles, King of Anything)

**The Hope: King Cobra**

_Emma half–expected him to be gone. _

_His face, worn as if it had weathered a thousand storms, was angled downwards, form hunched over in the cell. Both hands concealed something from her, palms pressed around the sides of a circular object, cradling it in a way a mother might hold her child. Gentle, soft, kind—things the Sheriff had not known he could be, ever would be; she wouldn't have believed it had she not witnessed the sight herself. Gold continued to turn the thing over and over in his hands, rings on his careful fingers clinking lightly when they kissed the glass, eyeing it with a mixture of sadness, guilt, and longing. _

_It was a teacup, chipped on one side. _

_He ran a thumb over the imperfection, back and forth, back and forth, slow and deliberate. Never rushing. Almost cherishing the feel of the rough edges._

_"So what did Regina want?"_

_Not having noticed her entrance, Gold jumped in surprise and nearly dropped the cup. He caught it in a crushing grip and pulled it to his chest. His head snapped up instantly, glaring daggers at her, eyes burning with accusation, a trick of the light making them appear red. Emma's skin prickled where his gaze fell, suddenly hot—like he had branded two small holes into her flesh, marking her as the enemy. _

_The Sheriff instinctively took a few steps back, waiting for his silent rage to catch fire and burn her where she stood._

_Instead, he shifted his weight on the bench, turning his back on her._

_Emma released a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding._

_The half an hour spent eating ice cream with Henry had been a rare opportunity, and she had taken the chance to talk with her son without so much as a backward glance. Just because Regina happened to be the Mayor, and Emma the newly–appointed Sheriff, didn't mean her attitude towards Henry's birthmother had improved in the slightest. If anything, her hatred of Emma had deepened, and probably grew stronger with each passing day._

_But the Mayor had been anxious to speak with the prisoner. So what was it she had she wanted from Mr. Gold? _

_The pawnbroker wouldn't budge, that much she knew for certain. Neither would he admit the cup had been the one item missing in the heap of trinkets stolen from him—it was obvious how valuable it was to him. From the way he held it gingerly between his fingers, Emma figured Gold assumed the glass teacup would break at any given moment. _

_And if it broke, surely he would, too. She somehow felt it served more of a purpose to him than by simply holding tea and a few lumps of sugar._

_A soft dripping sound brought Emma back to reality. She looked to the ceiling, expecting a leak in the roof, before the light of the setting sun seeped through the blinds on the window and fell across her face and curled hair—the only evidence that proved the relatively soundless noise was coming from Gold's cell._

_"Hey," Emma snapped, crossing the room to where he sat. She clutched the bars tightly, trying to prevent herself from reaching through them and flicking the prisoner in the back of the head. "Knock it off, Gold."_

_The pawnbroker turned to meet her with a steely gaze. "Knock _what _off, exactly?" _

_"That noise—" The Sheriff stopped. _

_In his hand was the teacup, white with decorative blue designs along the outer rim. Only now it was also being freshly painted in uneven red streaks, the china oozing dark liquid. Emma forced herself to swallow._

_"You're bleeding," she said a little breathily. _

_Mr. Gold looked down at his right thumb, from which blood had begun to flow incessantly. _

_Huh. So he was._

* * *

><p>The loud screech of brakes at noon acted as an alarm clock for those in Storybrooke still slumbering the day away.<p>

He woke with his head pounding painfully. Bright sunlight poured in through the window, and he raised a hand to block out the world, noticing the curtains had been drawn open. An automobile engine roared loudly outside before being abruptly silenced, followed by the slamming of a car door. Both sounds seemed strangely magnified. Scrambling to sit up, Mr. Gold reached out blindly for his cane, hand only grasping thin air. The movement greatly upset his stomach, and he limped towards the nearest restroom without the aid of his third leg.

Emma pushed the front door open, inviting herself in. "Gold?" she called. Hearing no answer, she set her keys and a cup of steaming liquid down on the mahogany table under the cabinet. Peering in through the glass squares, Emma could see several rows of expensive–looking china, one on each shelf. She noticed the chipped teacup among the decorative plates and silverware, but did not dare to take it out for closer examination. The Sheriff searched the space again for the pawnbroker. She approached a door that was slightly ajar, hearing horrid retching sounds from within. Emma surprised herself by smiling and leaning against the wall. "How does that whiskey taste the second time around?"

More retching was her answer.

"You know, I stopped by Granny's this morning," she continued. "Ruby looked a mess, really torn up. Maybe you should pay her a visit . . . given you don't blow chunks all over the counter." Her satisfied smirk vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared when she heard no reply. Thinking he had passed out, Emma eased the door open with an outstretched hand.

Head lolled over the toilet, pale and miserable, was the pawnbroker, clearly suffering from a hangover. Gold was breathing heavily, cheek pressed against the rim. After a moment, he heaved an arm up to the lever, slapping it pathetically, succeeding in flushing away the contents and disgusting smell, though he refused to move another inch.

"Let me guess... Dizziness? Headache? And by that little trip down the porcelain express, I'd say morning sickness." She paused, looking down at his weak figure. "Do you know how far along you are?"

Gold placed one hand on the floor, the other reaching up to grab the edge of the sink, attempting to summon enough strength to stand. "I'm glad you find . . . this amusing, Sheriff," he grunted, fighting his way to an unsteady vertical position, holding fast to the vanity. "You—"

Emma caught him as he stumbled forward, nearly falling backward from the impact. She slung one of his arms around her shoulders and wrapped one of her own around his back. "Can you walk?"

He took a clumsy step forward, leaning dependably on her. She crashed loudly into the door, which smashed into the wall, creating a hole the size of the knob by the sound of it. Emma sighed in frustration, adjusting his weight and hers until she could manage the both of them. _I don't get paid enough for this._ They somehow made it back to the couch, where she dumped him a tad ungracefully. Not that he seemed to notice—or care.

"My cane," he mumbled into the couch, hiding from the sun. "Where is it?"

Emma hooked a thumb over her shoulder. "Squad car," she replied. "Thought you might try to take a walk if I went out. But by the looks of it"—the Sheriff gestured to him with a small wave of her hand—"I shouldn't have bothered."

Gold roughly clutched a nearby cushion and pressed it to his ear, trying unsuccessfully to block out her voice. His own was muffled: "Go to hell."

Emma smirked. "Sorry, already been. Here," she added, picking up the steaming cup she'd brought from the table. "Coffee. Black. Like your heart."

The pawnbroker remained motionless.

The Sheriff slammed the offering back down on the table, some coffee sloshing through the lid and burning her hand. A small hiss of pain escaped her. Emma shook the liquid away, snatched her keys, pulling the front door closed a little harder than necessary on her way out. As a parting gift, she retrieved the cane from the squad car, taking care to chuck it clean across the front yard. It connected with the top step, clunking comically down the entire set, stair by stair, until it reached the ground, propped in wait for its owner.

Emma was halfway back to the station when she realized she'd let him win yet again by getting to her oh–so–easily. She shoved an open palm against the steering wheel, angry at herself. As much as she had given, and as many things that had been taken from her, Emma still hadn't gotten used to the empty feeling that plagued her practically every time Gold was around. It stuck with her for hours, sometimes days if he seemed determined to dog her around town, the debt a terrible burden on her shoulders. Just spying his shadow in the doorway sent the Sheriff running in the other direction.

Emma caught sight of the box in the passenger seat and had the urge to throw it out the window. Dumping her with a locked wooden case and a boatload of useless information had not helped with the crushing weight that brought on a gloomy and irritable mood, and the all–nighter she'd pulled didn't help in that department. She wondered—and not for the first time—if the box was empty. Already Emma had resorted to picking the lock, though she hadn't expected luck to be on her side. She'd turned it upside down and shaken it, hoping something would magically fall out, but nothing had rattled inside when she'd held it up to her ear.

If there really _was_ something in there, it must've been encased in some sort of padding.

* * *

><p><em>Emma shouldered the door open as quietly as she could, hoping not to wake Mary Margaret. She sucked in a breath when she saw the slumped form of the school teacher at the table—the released it just as quickly. Mary was fast asleep, head resting on folded arms, a mug of what looked to be coffee sitting idly at her elbow. Emma slipped past her, unnoticed.<em>

_The Sheriff set the cardboard box on the counter, the wooden case right beside it. She scribbled a sloppy note to Mary and laid it on top of the gift._

_Then she dug a pocketknife from her front jean pocket._

_Emma had never let Mary Margaret catch sight of the tool, worried she might react the same way she had to seeing Emma carrying a gun around. It wasn't so much the tone of her voice as it was the look on Mary's face that stirred some unidentifiable emotion in Emma's chest. The concerned stare reminded her of Henry's theory about his teacher being Snow White, how she was supposedly her daughter. Emma glanced at Mary's still figure, realizing for the first time that that would make her Henry's grandmother. _

_Of course the lock wouldn't open with her makeshift key. Had she really expected it to be that easy?_

_Emma stuffed the wooden box under one arm and turned to leave. She paused at the table, and thinking coffee might prevent her eyelids from drooping, she took a small sip from the mug—and fought the immediate urge to spit it right back out. Emma made a face, set it down, and swallowed._

_Black coffee was definitely better warm. _

* * *

><p>The coffee hadn't helped.<p>

When Emma made the dreaded return to the station, her office looked like it had been hit by a mini tornado. Papers covered the floor, and no matter where she stepped, there seemed to be more. Like they were multiplying mutinously, drowning her.

The mess was not easy to clean, though she managed it within an hour. It was times like these when Emma wished she had an assistant.

But she had done all she could for the last twenty–four hours. She deserved a break. The Sheriff let her eyes fall shut. . . .

"Sleeping on the job, I see."

Emma inhaled sharply and straightened up. How long he had been standing there, framed in the doorway, she did not know—nor did she _want_ to know. She brushed stray hair from her face impatiently, trying not to appear startled by his arrival. From Mr. Gold's triumphant smile, the Sheriff guessed she had failed.

Emma glanced at the clock. "Got over that hangover pretty fast."

"You'll find I recover quickly, Sheriff." He held out a Styrofoam cup, steam rising from the top.

Emma accepted the drink, somewhat suspicious, knowing only one place in town to get the beverage. "You stopped by Granny's?"

Gold tilted his head to the side, considering her question delicately. "Not quite."

"So, what?" She raised the cup. "You made this yourself?"

The pawnbroker gave a little bow. "Why, of course, dear Emma."

The Sheriff studied the cup, opening the lid to find the contents were, in fact, hot chocolate and not some deadly poison. She replaced the lid and lifted it to her nose, breathing in the mouth–watering aroma. Emma smiled up at Gold. "So you're not trying to kill me, then." It wasn't exactly a question.

Mr. Gold half–smiled back at her, still smug. "Of course not, Ms. Swan. How, then, could you ever repay me?"

Maybe one day, for that little comment, she would come back to haunt his ass.


	3. The Serpent: Heart of Darkness

**_Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT._**

_And in this heart of darkness  
>Our hope lies lost and torn<br>All fame like love is fleeting  
>When there's no hope anymore <em>

_Pain and glory, hand in hand  
>A sacrifice, the highest price<em>

(Apocalyptica, Hope vol. 2)

_"Not all treasure is silver and gold, mate." _—Captain Jack Sparrow, Pirates of the Caribbean

**The Serpent: Heart of Darkness**

_Mary,_

_I figured it was time I got you a new one of these._

—_ES_

* * *

><p>The hot chocolate did wonders for Emma Swan.<p>

It was like she had undergone a dreamless sleep while awake. No nightmares, no worries; all her troubles seemed to have dissipated with the sun and its breathtaking light. Though even as rain pounded overhead, the Sheriff found her spirits very much the same—what could a little storm hurt? The town had seen plenty even before Henry had tricked her into coming to Storybrooke.

After being silent all afternoon, the phone decided to ring. Emma picked it up and answered, "Sheriff's Station. How can I help you?"

_"I wouldn't be opposed to you giving your vehicle a once–over, Ms. Swan."_

How much time had passed since he'd last been at the station? Two hours? Three, maybe? And now he was calling for—what? _Another_ favor? Emma hadn't physically signed a contract when she'd made either of those deals, but of course he set the terms, drew the line she could never cross. If he wanted something done, she would have to make it happen. And if she didn't? The pawnbroker had nothing to lose, nothing to run from. But Emma had everything to lose, and Gold to run from. She swallowed the laugh that had risen in her throat. Gold? Chase _her_? The Sheriff's mouth twitched at the corners as she imagined the scene in her mind's eye.

The phone rang again.

"I'm putting you on hold," she mumbled around a suppressed smile to Mr. Gold, switching over to the second line. Emma picked up the cord phone and shuffled over to the window, peering through the blinds to get a good look at the squad car. "Sheriff Swan."

_"Emma?" _came Mary Margaret's relieved voice from the other end. _"Oh, I'm glad I caught you. I wanted to thank you for the new toaster. But you really didn't have to—"_

"Yes," Emma insisted, cutting her off, "I did. It was the least I could do after mutilating the last one." She moved her head from side to side, shifting her viewpoint, trying to discern just who might be inside. The icy sheets of rain lashed against the window, rendering it nearly impossible even to make out the bold lettering on the side of her vehicle. The Sheriff hastily wiped away some of the condensation.

_"Well, thank you." _There was a short pause. _"Are you alright? I didn't hear you stop by. . . ."_

Suddenly, the rain let up significantly—completely out of the blue. Emma waited for the clouds in the sky to part and the sun to come bursting through, but a light sprinkling continued, the swirling gray mass overhead still a lingering threat. Now she could make out a small figure in the passenger seat.

And a larger one approaching it.

_"Emma?"_

The Sheriff glanced down at the phone to find no one was waiting for her on the first line. The pawnbroker had clearly lost his patience and hung up. Emma set her jaw. "I'm sorry, Mary Margaret. Something's come up. I'll be by later and explain everything, I promise." Emma watched in astonishment as the passenger door opened.

_"Okay, I'll—"_

But she'd already dropped the phone, shrugged into her leather jacket, and headed for the door, hand resting on the gun at her waist. Emma hurriedly grabbed a copy of the _Daily Mirror_ before heading outside.

It wasn't the best substitute for an umbrella, but it worked.

Mr. Gold stood innocently by the squad car, bent over slightly in obvious conversation with the person on the passenger side. He held a black umbrella in his gloved hand, his cane in the other, hair hiding his expression. The Sheriff knew he had done this mostly to cause her to worry, or to be angry. Or both. He knew _exactly_ how to push her buttons, though she could never allow him the satisfaction of her admittance of the fact. How he had discovered the weakness, Emma could not tell. But it certainly made her feel a little more self–conscious as she approached him.

"What the hell are you—?"

Emma stopped short when the pawnbroker straightened up, revealing who he had been talking to.

"Henry!" Emma exclaimed, stepping in front of Gold and immediately noting her son's sodden clothes and hair, concern and shock taking over. She laid a hand on Henry's shoulder—he was soaked to the bone. "What're you doing here?"

He glanced down at the object in his lap, then back at Emma, whose gaze remained fixated on the wooden case with something akin to horror.

The box Gold had given her for safekeeping.

"Where did you get that?" she wanted to ask, but didn't. Emma knew he had found it right where she had left it—in the passenger seat. In the unlocked squad car. Where anyone could get their hands on it. The Sheriff took the box from her son with shaking hands, forcing herself not to meet Mr. Gold's burning stare as she helped Henry from the vehicle, newspaper still acting as the only barrier between herself and the rain. Her fingers felt frozen to the damp material. "Come on," Emma said, steering her son away towards her yellow Bug, where the pawnbroker was definitely _not_. "I'll take you home."

"No, please, Emma," Henry begged, removing her arm from around his shoulders. He planted his feet firmly to the ground in objection. "She doesn't even know I left! I could stay here with you for a while—"

The Sheriff sighed, bending at the waist to look levelly at her son. "Look, kid, I'm already in Regina's bad book, okay? The last thing I need to give her right now is a reminder on why she put me there in the first place."

"But—"

Gold's cane clunked loudly against the sidewalk. "Perhaps the lad could accompany me to my shop?" he suggested, resting both hands on its shimmering top. "I certainly could use an extra pair of legs."

Emma frowned and raised herself to full height. Did he really think she would let Henry go to the pawnbroker's shop without her? Was he testing her somehow, furious at her carelessness? As tempting as it was for Emma to whisk her son away to Boston and then keep on running, she knew she couldn't. And wouldn't. But that had always been her specialty—running away and starting all over. She could change their names, move to a small, quiet city, and simply disappear off the face of the earth.

Regina would find them eventually, but at least not right away.

"It's getting late, I really should take him back," Emma supplied lamely. She took Henry's hand. By now the newspaper had run its course, sinking under the weight of the water it had absorbed. Ink ran together and slid down the side, dripping down to mix in and get washed away with the rainwater. She tossed the ruined paper into a nearby trash can.

Henry looked up at Emma, blinking through the liquid running down his face, squeezing her hand reassuringly. "That's okay," he said sadly. "It's probably best." Before the Sheriff could protest, Henry captured her in a bone–crushing hug. She patted his back softly, still aware of Mr. Gold's eyes on them. Henry pulled back. "Bye, Emma." He spared a quick glance for the pawnbroker and sped off down the street towards the Mayor's house. Emma opened her mouth to call after him, but shut it with a defeated release of breath through her nose.

She hadn't noticed the rain had stopped falling on her head.

"Sweet boy," Gold commented harmlessly mere inches away, causing her to jump. He smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. He glanced up to ensure his grip on the umbrella was steady. "Sure knows his fairy tales."

Emma, heart pounding fast in her chest from the break of silence, stepped back, his close proximity overwhelming her. Yet, when she had regained her composure, she looked at him with a mixture of defiance and courage. She hated playing games, especially exhaustive, endless ones in which she was the pawn used for sacrifice. She hated putting on a mask when she went around town, sending out the false image of her with her head held high, unafraid. Because she was scared—scared of losing Henry to Regina, scared of him disappearing forever. Emma knew she would have to fight for him, but she doubted the outcome of that battle would turn out to be in her favor.

And already she was tired of fighting.

Because she _couldn't_ win.

Mr. Gold narrowed his eyes at her, the skin around them crinkling. "Are you alright, Ms. Swan?" he asked, voice languid and flowing over her like cold water, breath hot on her neck. "You seem . . . distracted."

"I'm fine," she snapped, a little too quickly, tightening her grip on the box. Emma glared at him. "Don't you have a shop to run? Or a few babies to steal?"

Gold chuckled. "The shop, yes." He gestured in its general direction by a simple nod. "Would you care to join me?"

Emma froze at the unanticipated question, at the alarming red flare in his pupils. The rain had picked up again slightly, and even though she was practically shivering, the Sheriff decided she would rather stand in the middle of the storm than follow Gold to his shop any day. Besides, she knew what he wanted to tell her—keep the case hidden from prying eyes and hands alike. If Henry had stumbled upon it, anyone could. And then where would they be?

She smiled as politely as she could manage. "Maybe another time—"

He had hooked his right arm through her left one before she could protest any further, the cane brushing her leg none too gently—it was more like a swift jab to the ankle—as he pulled her along, the umbrella bobbing up and down rhythmically. Emma tried yanking her hand away, but he crushed it against his side hard enough for her to feel his ribs with her knuckles. He only gripped the cane tighter when she attempted to kick it away. Finally, she gave up and walked at a decent clip, hoping to have him lagging behind her.

Somehow, he matched her stride for stride.

He held the door for her when they finally reached the place. "After you, dear Emma." And he nudged her inside the dimly–lit shop.

The Sheriff rubbed her sore hand as her vision adjusted to the lighting. Candles of every shape, size, and color adorned the small space that had been made to look vast, filled with unknown treasure.

Emma wondered if Mr. Gold had once been a pirate. Wooden leg, gold teeth. He just needed a bandana and an eye patch.

The pawnbroker limped towards the back room with the dripping umbrella. Emma stepped back, hand clutching the doorknob. She could run now, right out into the rain, head back for the station with the wooden case. But she turned back, aware of his sudden gaze on her. "Power out or something?" she asked innocently. Like she _hadn't_ just been thinking about escape.

Emma's eyes lowered to the small saucer and teacup in his free hand. He held it out to her, and she glanced down, unable to tell if the contents were truly tea. "Preparations," Gold explained, scanning the space. "For the storm. One never can be too careful."

_". . . or, maybe, I'm just intuitive." _

The Sheriff gripped the saucer carefully, steam rising up in wisps to warm her chin. With no free hand, she could only stare, though Emma probably wouldn't have taken a sip from it if she hadn't been holding the wooden case, anyway. "Look, I'm sorry about what happened," she began. "I shouldn't have—"

Mr. Gold, who had stooped to examine an ancient mantel clock on display, held up a hand. "There is no need for an apology, Ms. Swan. I demanded a simple request from you. If you should fail to fulfill it, know there will be consequences." The pawnbroker opened the glass cover on the clock, glancing down at his golden pocket watch to check the time. The antique had always been one of his favorite pieces in his endless collection—dark wood, spidery hands, rolling waves carved into the base—and it only seemed justifiable to keep it working properly. Mr. Gold used his index finger to make one full turn clockwise with the black hour hand. Satisfied, he closed the glass cover and returned to the counter. He sighed loudly, leaning back against the counter with folded arms, the flickering flames casting one side of his face in shadow. "You should listen to your boy," the pawnbroker continued. "Or one day, you may come to regret it."

Emma set the saucer down on the counter challengingly. "Is that a threat?"

Gold titled his head, considering. "From your perspective, I suppose it is." He lifted a finger, waving it around as he spoke: "But I don't believe you'd be willing to test your limits, have a single toe out of line. After all, that would risk putting Henry in the crossfire, would it not?"

Emma tried to forget Gold's ability to read her like an open book, knowing she had just been picturing a custody battle between her and Regina, Henry glancing from one to the other, caught in the middle, watching helplessly as they screamed over him. The Sheriff didn't know whether the pawnbroker's comment had been an offer or if he was just laying a few cards out on the table as useless facts to bounce off of her. "Since when have you given a rat's ass about what happens to Henry?"

Gold flashed a toothless grin—one she knew all too well. "You forget we share a common enemy, Sheriff."

That she had.


	4. The Serpent: Leverage

_**Disclaimer: Playing in the sandbox again.**_

_A warning to the people  
>The good and the evil<br>This is war_

(This Is War, 30 Seconds to Mars)

**The Serpent: Leverage**

A warning.

That's all it was—just a warning, Emma decided, setting the case next to the teacup and saucer on the counter. And a possible scare tactic acting as insurance of her keeping her end of the bargain. Of course, Regina could always fire her and send her packing, but only if Emma failed to do her duty as Sheriff of Storybrooke. As much as she wished he hadn't, Gold had helped her get the position, beaten the Mayor at her own game. After everything, the pawnbroker had remained a silent observer, and—if only a little regrettably—her benefactor.

If, when push came to shove, it came down to a custody battle in court, maybe Gold could earn her another much–needed victory.

Emma gestured to the box. "What's in it?" she demanded bluntly, crossing her arms, shifting all weight to one leg.

Mr. Gold gave a knowing smile, spreading his arms wide, laughing soundlessly. "You cannot honestly expect me to divulge—"

"Why not?" Emma queried. If anyone could afford to put all their cookies in one jar, it was him. She placed both hands, palms down, on the counter, leaning forward, her voice low and serious. "If you intend for me to keep whatever it is your hiding under lock and key, I think I have the right to know what that something _is_."

The pawnbroker shrugged. "Curiosity can be a dangerous thing, Ms. Swan. And I believe you know the terms of our agreement. Should you fail, you suffer the consequences of your actions—or should I say . . . lack thereof. Let us not forget that would make it"—his hand jerked towards her, fingers spread apart slightly, the open palm shifting blame to her name—"your funeral, my dear. Not mine." He placed his hand over his heart in such a guiltless way that the Sheriff's hand twitched instinctively toward her gun.

A strong scent of vanilla wafted towards Emma, swirling invisibly in the air around her, blending and merging with citrus and apple pie, flooding her nostrils as she inhaled deeply in annoyance. While clever and cunning, Gold was also stubborn. Like her. Like Henry. Even like Regina—the Evil Queen determined to reap and keep every last happy ending for herself. Though, if she truly had been a dark ruler in some magical kingdom far, far away—which required a significant amount of blind faith on Emma's part—the pawnbroker had appointed himself king of Storybrooke. He owned every square inch of land, every crack in the sidewalk, every person desperate enough to sign one of his loophole–free contracts. Which, of course, meant he _had_ pawned her, much to Emma's dismay. Maybe even before her acquiescence to the deal that had saved Ashley Boyd's unborn child.

And that made the Sheriff's job all the more tediously difficult.

If there were an annual cash prize for waltzing around the truth, Gold would've won each year, hands down. _Maybe that's why he's rich. _Citizens avoided the pawnbroker and his shop like the plague, a rare few having the sheer courage to walk on the same side of the street. No one visited; no one called; no one stared. No one but Emma, it seemed. Not a single soul in town could provide a steady enough income to pay for all those three–piece suits.

"Do you dance?"

The question was out before she could stop it. Exhaustion had driven right through her, fast and without warning. Various smells filled the room, making her head ache and spin. If Emma had not been supported by the counter, she might have lost her balance. The Sheriff blinked furiously several times in a futile attempt at regaining focus of her surroundings. She pressed a hand to her forehead. _High off candles_, Emma thought fleetingly. _That's a new one._

Mr. Gold hadn't moved an inch in the short space of time, watching the Sheriff carefully. The question, along with her movements, had become sluggish from what he assumed to be sleep deprivation. He noticed for the first time her red leather jacket was dripping rainwater, a small puddle pooling at her feet. He took up his cane and circled around to assist her.

Emma slapped his outstretched hand away with surprising swiftness. "I don't need your help," she mumbled harshly, snatching the wooden case from the counter and propping it under her arm. The Sheriff paused when he spoke, hand on the doorknob, her nose almost touching the CLOSED sign hanging in the window.

"I could waterproof your jacket, if you'd like."

Emma half–smiled wryly, forcing the door open. "I'll take my chances."

When the door slammed shut, it rattled in its frame, the walls rippling with the sound. It sent something crashing to the floor, the pawnbroker catching the briefest flash of gold. At the sight of the cracked object, Mr. Gold had the sudden urge to break down the door and storm after Emma Swan:

She'd broken his little bell.

* * *

><p>The storm had subsided for the time being.<p>

And all Emma wanted was a drink—a _real_ drink, not the tasteless coffee Mary Margaret had procured. Adding cream and sugar helped, but sitting around nursing a mug of coffee wouldn't shut her mind off or get her a good night's sleep. Or help her keep her job and son.

And it all led back to him.

If she never saw the shop and its owner again, it would be much too soon. Emma tried not to think of his amused features whenever he knew he had her cornered—an infinite game of cat and mouse. Only, this Tom liked to play with his food before he ate it . . . so Jerry would never know what was coming until it was too late.

"Cookie?" Mary asked, offering a fresh plate to Emma.

The Sheriff chose a cookie of the chocolate chip variety and set it down on a napkin. Emma looked to her friend as Mary took a seat directly opposite her at the table, tearing the warm treat in front of her to bits that melted satisfyingly in her mouth. Emma swallowed, then frowned as she watched Mary bite into a small brownie, rubbing the crumbs off her fingers. "Can I ask you something?"

Mary paused mid–chew. "Of course," she mumbled around the brownie. "Ask me anything."

"Why are you so afraid of Mr. Gold?"

The burning desire in Emma's eyes to know the truth instantly reminded Mary Margaret of Henry. Always thirsty for knowledge, for justice, for what was right. So unlike the pawnbroker, who seemed to already know everything, always appear twenty steps ahead. Mary supposed, given his reign over the town, he couldn't afford to be behind, if even for a moment.

Or someone else could step up and take his place.

"He owns the town," Mary replied after a few heartbeats of deadly silence.

"So that automatically means you have to hide every time he shows up here?" Emma shook her head when her friend turned away. "You're better than that, Mary Margaret." She rested a hand on Mary's, causing the school teacher to look back at Emma. "And you're better than he is."

Mary smirked, placing her free hand on top of Emma's. She nodded once. "We both are."

Emma returned the smile, though it faltered once Mary looked back down at the desert plate. She'd made two deals more than the school teacher ever had. That didn't make her a hero, a saint, or anyone's savior. That labeled her as pathetic and demeaning, allowing herself to be Gold's puppet. He pulled the strings, and she obeyed.

Unlike Mary Margaret, Emma didn't have a choice.

* * *

><p>The Sheriff woke from a disturbing nightmare in the early hours of the morning—darkness outside the window told her the sun had yet to rise. She kicked the tangled sheets off her legs, hastily trying to retrieve all fragments of the horrible dream, but ultimately failed. Emma headed for the kitchen to grab a glass of water.<p>

Somehow she knew Henry had been in trouble in the nightmare, and that some small, impish figure had chased him through the woods, Emma stumbling after them in high heels. While that image had seemed comical, she hadn't been able to reach Henry, and it had scared her to the edge of the earth and back. And so she'd woken to a scream ringing in her ears.

Yet, as the Sheriff gulped down a full glass of water, she still felt like she was missing something rather important.

A change of clothes and a quick trip down the stairs later, Emma emerged from the building, glad not to have disturbed Mary Margaret. She was relieved Mary hadn't caught her, though that didn't make any sense; it wasn't like she was sneaking out. Not _really_, Emma decided as she started the squad car. Unless the school teacher truly _was_ her mother. But, even then, Emma was over eighteen and considered an adult. So why would she have the need to feel guilty about leaving in the middle of the night?

She didn't know where she was going until she happened to find herself knocking on the front door, badge shoved onto her belt, the weight of her jacket making Emma feel as if she were a true authority. She looked around. _This_ was where her feet had taken her? Of all places?

Of course, he opened the door, expression a pleased one, eyes still scrutinizing and fiery as ever. "I didn't realize the Sheriff made house calls this early."

"She doesn't," Emma affirmed sharply. "Unless she's collecting on that favor you owe her."

He nodded, the drunken memory washing over him. "I see." Gold's eyes raked over her, gaze pausing when he reached her badge, though he did not move to let her inside. The pawnbroker sighed. "What can I do for you, Ms. Swan?"

"I want your help with Henry."

"Henry?" Gold seemed surprised, but Emma had studied his mannerisms long enough to know the emotion wasn't genuine. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Regina," Emma replied, as if the name alone meant something.

And it did. "Ah, yes. _Now_ I see. The Mayor _is_ a tad clingy, unfortunately. . . ."

Emma released a frustrated sigh. If he hadn't gotten semi–drunk and asked her to guard an empty box with her life, she wouldn't be on his doorstep before sunrise, asking for a favor. And that night at Granny's still didn't make sense; he had risked getting thrown in jail to force another deal on her? Had it all been for show? Did that even still make him her ally?

With all the questions he'd left her with, no wonder Emma was tempted to shoot him on a daily basis. "There might be a time," she started slowly, "somewhere down the line, when I have the chance to—"

Mr. Gold's mouth pulled up at one corner. "Gain full custody?"

Emma didn't waste time wondering how he knew. "Yes."

The pawnbroker hesitated, unsure of whether to let the Sheriff inside or join her—so much so that Emma wondered if he had another guest. In the end, he pulled the door closed behind him as he stepped carefully outside. "Would you care for a walk, Ms. Swan?"

The Sheriff glanced down at his third leg. "You sure about that?"

Gold laughed softly as he began his leisurely descent of the concrete stairs in the dark, the only light provided by streetlamps at regular intervals. "Your concern for others is admirable, Emma."

Silence stretched between him as she fell into step beside him. So long had Emma waited for the opportunity to demand answers, and now here she was, speechless. A light breeze whistled through the trees overhead, multi–colored leaves whipping in circles past them, and the Sheriff wondered for the thousandth time how the change in Storybrooke weather could be any more drastic.

Gold listened to the comforting sound of his cane tapping against the ground. "Our dear Madame Mayor regards you as a threat, as I'm sure you are aware."

Emma nodded. "But she has Henry."

"Whom she uses as leverage," Mr. Gold continued, ignoring the Sheriff's furious look at hearing her son being referred to as a weapon. He met her angry glare through the gloom with a steady glance. "He is as much your weakness as he is hers, I'm afraid. And that would be because Regina knows no limits—it clouds her judgment, leaves her alone in the dark. She wanted a . . . companion of sorts."

Emma waited for him to recall the entire story. "And she found that in _Henry_?" she asked, her eyes widening in disbelief.

Gold shook his head. "I believe Regina tried to find a piece of her father in your son, Ms. Swan, after his untimely death," he explained, putting partial emphasis on the second to last word. "Your arrival interfered with what little she holds dear."

Emma inhaled the information like a breath of fresh air, though she watched, slightly detached, as his expression hardened.

Surely sharing a common enemy could be beneficial, but only if neither held Henry as a hostage, as leverage. "I won't use Henry, even if it means beating Regina," Emma assured Gold, knocking a branch she had nearly tripped over to the side. "And I won't kill her. Not even if that box turns out to hold a seven nation army." She couldn't have more black spots on her record than necessary. Especially not now that she was Sheriff.

The pawnbroker smiled innocently, a little sadly, confident Emma would not see. "I wouldn't have expected any different from you."


	5. The Writer: Insurance

**A/N: Now **_**here**_** is where things start to get interesting. **

_**Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT or its characters. This is for entertainment purposes only. **_

_All this time spent in vain  
>Wasted years<br>Wasted gain  
>All is lost<br>Hope remains  
>And this war's not over<em>

(Shattered, Trading Yesterday)

**The Writer: Insurance **

Emma never noticed.

Slouched in the corner on a rainy afternoon at Granny's, slinking through the streets, watching unnoticed as she ran regular patrols—a little harebrained—around a town that had little need for law enforcement. That's what he did. Because that's why he had come to Storybrooke in the first place, wasn't it? She wasn't a believer—he was. She had no faith—he did. Of course, neither fact surprised him, not in the least. Not even her own kid had seemed astounded. And while not the most specific pieces of information, certainly true. Certainly worth _knowing_.

Gold had made it his job to know.

So, somehow, he'd find a way to make the Sheriff see the light.

* * *

><p>"Good day, Ms. Swan."<p>

With a slight dip of his head, Mr. Gold closed the door to his magnificent castle disguised as a lonely mansion, shutting away the town Sheriff and blinding light of the rising sun. He waited for the sound of the squad car's engine to start, slowly peeling away the leather gloves fitted to his worn hands with careful fingers. The pawnbroker narrowed his gaze at a thin white scar on his right thumb—one that had appeared after his convenient release from jail—cursing Emma under his breath in an unbreakable string of insults.

The low sound of chuckling had Gold instinctively reaching for the gun he left by the door. His jaw clenched as his fingers met only dusty wood, and exhaling slowly through his nose, realized the Sheriff had never returned it.

"You too, huh?"

Mr. Gold could feel the intruder's steady gaze on his back, and turned to find the visitor sprawled across the chair Emma had so recently occupied. At the sight, the pawnbroker entered the room, expression and eyes hard as a rock. "I do have a doorbell," said Gold calmly, planting his cane between his feet.

The man sat up. "I realized that," he admitted, tilting his head to the side. "But then I found this." The visitor held up a small object between his thumb and forefinger, then tossed it in a high arch to Gold, who caught it with ease.

In his open palm was a silver key.

The man pushed himself to his feet. "You really should find a better hiding place than under the mat." He smiled, right hand covering his left wrist in a relaxing stance. "Makes it all too easy for a guy like me to break in."

It took a great amount of self–restraint not to grind his teeth. Gold returned the comment with a placid smirk. "Thank you. I'll keep that in mind, Mr. Booth." The pawnbroker pocketed the key and side–stepped August to move toward the sofa, which he leaned his cane against, shifting all weight to one leg. Flipping the hair from his dark eyes, Gold glared at his unanticipated guest. "Now, what do you need?"

For a moment, August only seemed to have eyes for his boots. "It's about our deal," the writer finally announced, looking back up. "Emma, really. She's going to ask to borrow the book."

* * *

><p><em>Storybrooke was an inspiring town.<em>

_Little things caught his attention at first, things that proved it was no ordinary place to live: The way citizens pulled their shutters closed for the night before nine o'clock, the way they walked swiftly from shop to shop during the day, almost as if they expected the sky to open above their heads and swallow them whole if they stopped, even for a moment. Children were scarce, locked away safely at home. Quick greetings were exchanged in passing—a nod of the head, a tilt of the hat. And one thing August noticed in particular was the way residents gave the pawn shop down the street a wide berth; too wide to go unnoticed._

_The town itself seemed to be holding its breath, watching and waiting for the opportune moment to release it. _

_The bell above the door to the diner sounded, and he glanced up from his mug in time to see a man dressed in dark clothing pass. Every other step the older man took was accompanied by a light tap. Looking around the diner, August realized many had fallen silent at the stranger's arrival, though it was hard to mistake the recognition in their eyes as they stared anywhere but at the counter, not daring to speak. _

_August waited for the man to test the uneasy atmosphere he had created. Surely someone so feared and hated couldn't have many friends, not in such a small town. It went against every instinct to have his back to whoever this man was, but the writer managed it, straining to overhear any shred of engaged conversation, hand on the cup of coffee stuck like glue._

_"It's all there, every last bit," said one of the women who ran the diner. A familiar line laced with eagerness, a draining line—one he suspected had been said many times before._

_"Thank you, dear." Even in three words, August detected the Scottish brogue, the smile in the low voice. The man turned back his way, walked sluggishly past. He stopped level with the end of the table August occupied, turning on his heel to stare knowingly, directly at him. He gestured to the empty chair. "Is this seat taken?"_

Yes_, August thought, even though it wasn't. He shook his head._

_The man sat down and extended a hand. "Hi, my name is Mr. Gold." _

_August accepted tentatively. "August Booth."_

_"A pleasure," Gold assured in a way that was almost convincing._

_August simply nodded and drained his mug, noting the wad of bills peeking out of the man's suit pocket. Gold followed his gaze, then smiled, tucking part of his fortune away, unashamed. "I own—"_

_"The pawn shop," August supplied, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "So I noticed." _

_A long silence stretched between them, though it was not unpleasant, merely a pause in which each acknowledged they knew more about the other than was worth sharing, a sign to skip formalities and get straight to business. _

_Gold leaned forward and lowered his voice to just above a whisper. "I know what you want."_

_August flashed a toothless smile. "Do you?" He paused, eyes sweeping over the pawnbroker to a shaken–looking Ruby, who had returned to fill his empty cup with black coffee. Her hands had begun to tremble violently at the sight of Mr. Gold, and though she tried her best to hide it, Ruby slopped the hot liquid over the table. August held up a hand to show he would take care of the mess, and Ruby shuffled away, dropping the coffee pot in her haste. Glass shards flew in every direction, littering the floor and causing several heads to turn. Granny immediately appeared with a broom and dustpan, almost as if she had been expecting her granddaughter to break something. August covered the spilled liquid on the tabletop with napkins from the dispenser. "And what is that, I wonder?" he inquired, noticing Gold's eyes had lightened significantly._

_The pawnbroker held up an open palm, as if the answer were painfully obvious. "Why, me, of course. Six feet under, presuming my assumptions are correct."_

_August raised his eyes to lock with Gold's across the table, hand frozen on a pile of sodden napkins. "I think we both know they aren't assumptions."_

_Mr. Gold, right hand resting on the top of the cane at his side, considered the glare, shifting his sitting position so he sat a little straighter. "Would you prefer I call them suspicions?" Gold asked innocently, a sly grin working its way onto his face._

_August shoved the heap of napkins aside, took a quick sip from his half–empty mug, and set it down, never once looking away. He folded his hands and sat forward. "What do you want with Emma?"_

_Mr. Gold leaned back, smugly defiant. "I really don't believe that's any of your concern, Mr. Booth. My agreements are always honored, you see. In fact," he continued, tightening his magenta tie, "it's why I'm here." _

_The writer's eyes widened slightly in realization. "You want to make a deal." _

_The pawnbroker narrowed his own smiling eyes. "Should Ms. Swan fall back on our bargain, you will act as, say, my . . . _insurance_. You will step in and take her place."_

_August smoothed his mouth into a firm line. So Emma _had _been desperate enough to fall into Gold's well–laid trap. "And what would that entail?"_

_"I think you know."_

_"What if I don't?"_

_"Oh, you do. Even if you don't know you know it. And, if not, there's still time for me to work a little magic—though, I must say . . . all magic comes with a price. And I've never been one for miracles."_

_"This . . . deal you have with Emma—will it harm her?"_

_"I have no reason to believe it would," Mr. Gold affirmed, though the look in his eyes said otherwise. "So, Mr. Booth, do we have a deal?"_

_August gripped the pawnbroker's outstretched hand much tighter than necessary. "If she—" he started heatedly in a threatening tone._

_Gold raised a hand. "You have my word." The pawnbroker used his cane to push himself to his feet. "And wouldn't you agree it would be in all our best interests to keep mum about the finer details of our little chat? Wouldn't want information falling into the wrong hands, now would we?"_

_"I wouldn't have it any other way." Gold turned to leave, but stopped even before the writer's sudden question, already two steps ahead: "What do I say to her?" _

_Gold flashed an infamous smile over his shoulder. "Baby steps."_

* * *

><p>"You didn't make a deal with him, did you?"<p>

Emma let her lids fall over her tired eyes and sighed, hating herself. She should've kicked the kid out when she'd had the chance instead of letting him stay at the station while she worked. Sure, he'd insisted on hanging around, even brought his fairytale book to keep him entertained, but the idea had been a bad one from the start. Of course he would get bored and start thinking, start asking questions she didn't want to answer.

Henry took her silence as confirmation. "That bad, huh?"

Emma found herself on her feet, trying not to backpedal like crazy. "What makes you think I made a deal with Mr. Gold? It wasn't like I—" She cleared her throat. "You're just a kid, Henry. You don't—"

"What?" he asked, flipping a few pages in his book at the desk right outside the Sheriff's office. "Understand? I know what a deal is, Emma. I'm not four."

"But you're not an adult, either," Emma was quick to point out. "And, besides, it didn't concern you, anyway. There's nothing for you to worry about." She exited the office, carrying an open file in her hands. Emma nodded toward the book over his shoulder. "Keep reading."

"But you _know_ him, don't you? You've been spending a lot of time at his shop, so you have to know if he's good or bad, right?" Henry looked down at his open book. "Who do you think he is?"

Slightly surprised, Emma set the file down, glancing from the book to her son. She supposed it didn't really matter if Henry knew about her frequent visits from Gold, or that she had been seen with him around town. But how had he known? Had he found out by following them?

Or had Regina told him?

"He could be anyone," Henry said, waving a hand over the pages. "I think we can rule out Peter Pan, Little Mermaid, Sleeping Beauty—" He flipped through the pages dedicated to each fairytale he named. Henry frowned. "Do you think he's a prince?"

The page with a picture of Cinderella and her prince dancing had caused Emma's son to pose the question with childlike curiosity. Deciding to play along, the Sheriff shook her head. "Not handsome enough. _Or_ young enough."

Henry tilted his head to look up at his biological mother. "But he's rich."

"Then maybe he's a king."

Doubt colored Henry's voice. "King of what?"

Emma shrugged. "But he practically owns the town, so anyone with a _brain_"—she ruffled his hair—"would see I'm right." The Sheriff half–smiled in triumph.

Henry laughed and looked back down at the book again. "Maybe you're right." He closed the book. "Operation Cobra gives me headaches."

"So take a break," Emma suggested. "You want me to hang onto it for you?"

She couldn't help but notice his eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. "You want to?"

"Sure. What else I am good for?" she teased.

Henry gathered up the book in his tiny hands and offered it to her. He grabbed her around the waist in one of his famous bone–crushing hugs. "Thanks, Emma."

Emma grabbed his backpack off the floor once he'd pulled away and handed it to him. "Now go home. I'll see you later, kid."

Henry shrugged into the backpack. "Bye, Emma!"

And, just like that, he was gone again.

When she heard the door swing open about fifteen minutes later, she thought nothing of it. Until Emma saw who had darkened the doorway of her office yet again.

"Sheriff Swan," he greeted politely. "May I have a moment of your time?"

**A/N 2: I hadn't originally planned for Booth to be part of this since we haven't yet learned of his possible fairytale identity on the show. But, as I want to stay as true to the show as possible, I just decided to be very vague for now. :) Please review!**


	6. The Serpent: Intuition

_**Chapter summary:**_** David and Mary Margaret run into each other and Gold offers Emma an invitation. **

_**Disclaimer: OUAT isn't mine.**_

_I don't believe in fairytales,_

_but I believe in you and me_

(Natalia Kills, Wonderland)

**The Serpent: Intuition**

August waited patiently for a response.

Maybe it was in the way Gold set his jaw, or the way his searing orbs flicked to the floor in annoyance, regarding the writer as if he were no more than a piece of dirt lodged in his pristine shoe. Or maybe it was both. Either way, August concluded the pawnbroker had been expecting the news for quite some time—possibly even before their deal had been struck that day at Granny's—suspected Emma would surrender and become a slave to her own curiosity. From the little he'd gathered about Emma's deal, August knew her agreement with Gold had also been made at the diner.

Perhaps that'd been why no one there could look the owner of the town in the face—the temptation to trade and barter and beg for a better life had been too great.

And, apparently, Gold was a regular customer.

The pawnbroker folded his arms as he leaned against the sofa, pausing to glance at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room before addressing the man who had slipped effortlessly into his home. "And this little piece of information you've chosen to share with me simply couldn't wait?"

August shifted his confident stance, making him appear uneasy. "She'll stumble upon your tale eventually," he said levelly. Cocking an eyebrow, he added, "If she were to discover—"

Gold cut him off with a sharp tone, abruptly raising a hand. "It won't be a problem, Mr. Booth." He gestured to his front door without looking, turning away to place both hands on the back of the sofa, shutting his tired eyes. "You may go."

August turned to leave, then hesitated as a thought occurred to him. "Should I—?"

The pawnbroker whipped around faster than the writer would have thought possible. "No matter what you may think, Ms. Swan's faith does not rest with you, Mr. Booth," Gold spat viciously. "She does not believe in what she cannot see, and only solid proof of the contrary will convince her otherwise. Proof you cannot procure. Proof she will come to discover in her own time." Mr. Gold snatched up his cane once more in a blur, taking a few threatening steps toward August, who had gone rigid with fury. "Her boy and that book are the only things capable of changing her perspective." Gripping his cane so tight his knuckles whitened, he added faintly with an air of boastfulness, "Being a writer, I suppose you understand."

August stared at Gold for the longest time before taking a stiff step backward. "She doesn't trust you," he mumbled quietly. "Emma knows her way around your tricks. She won't fall for them again."

Gold smiled devilishly, matching every step August took toward the door with one of his own. "Then I believe you have nothing further to worry about. And"—he seized the golden knob on the door and yanked it open—"I'm afraid you've overstayed your welcome." Mr. Gold indicated his groomed lawn with an exaggerated wave of his hand. "Good day to you."

August, fists shaking ever so slightly with rage, burst through the doorway and took the concrete steps two at a time, nearly reaching the bottom when Gold had decided to—with a contained sense of calm—shut the door. For a moment, the pawnbroker remained unmoving, breathing deeply through his nose, listening as a motorcycle's engine caught and roared away down the road. Then he proceeded to the kitchen, where a pitcher of ice–cold water awaited him atop the counter.

Gold's fingers curled around the slim handle, which was slick with condensation, eyeing the green cup sitting idly at its side, forcing all thoughts from his mind. He only spared a small glance for his suit, failing miserably to remain in control when he wondered how the town Sheriff would have reacted to seeing him in such a state—

Before emptying the contents over his head.

* * *

><p>He tried to ignore the weight of the lock picks in his pocket as he made his way across the street, glancing in each direction twice to make sure no one saw him. Once on the other side, David Nolan stepped up to the glass widow and peered inside, cupping his hands to better see inside the dark pawnshop.<p>

He could just make it out, barely visible amongst the curved shapes of other objects foreign to him. Upon laying eyes on it, something stirred within him as it had before, sending him stumbling backward—the flash of a dark–haired woman, a lost fragment of his past. The windmill held the key to his memories, David knew, held everything he'd forgotten. Watching it spin had helped him _remember_.

Remember Kathryn. Remember their life together.

If it could help him accomplish an impossible feat such as that, surely it could trigger more memories, perhaps one that would explain why a strange dark–haired woman kept appearing in his dreams.

David regained his footing as the fragment faded, shaking his head to clear it and focus on his task. He bent down to work at the lock, fumbling with the two picks, glancing anxiously behind him every few seconds. He stopped his progress a few times to twist the knob hopefully, but it refused to grant him access. As he was trying for a fifth time, he heard her.

"David?"

He didn't have to turn around to confirm it truly was her and not a hallucination—his black–outs came and went, leaving him utterly disoriented, unable to distinguish pieces of reality scattered throughout a series of interlocking dreams. Before David was consciously aware of what he was doing, he spun around at the sound, as if the movement were a reflex. One corner of his mouth rose at the sight of her standing in front of him . . . until David registered the shock on her face and followed her concerned gaze downward.

She'd spotted the lock picks gripped in his hand.

* * *

><p>Emma warred with the urge to laugh and sigh exasperatedly in the same instant.<p>

Golden sunlight rayed through the blinds, beaming steadily across the Sheriff's shoulder as she shoved her hands into her back jean pockets. She knew it should scare her, the way he moved so soundlessly, his ever–pleasant, smooth–as–silk voice that could make you believe whatever he desired; his ability to manipulate and entrance with a facile exchange of few words. Though as he stepped out of the shadows and into her office, Emma felt a sudden stab of—but, no, she thought, pushing away the misplaced feeling. Pity never did anyone good.

Mr. Gold peered at her, brushing a strand of damp hair from his forehead, a few drops of water raining to the floor. His black suit appeared dry, but she wondered if it too had somehow gotten wet. Emma noticed his shoes squelched slightly when he walked and suppressed a laugh by glancing quickly away and thinking of Henry. When she had regained her composure and looked back, the pawnbroker held up an arm as if addressing the ceiling.

"Go on," he urged, waiting, letting his arm fall back to his side.

Emma frowned. "You, um . . . went swimming."

Gold nodded. "Yes, something like that." He gently lowered himself into a chair opposite the one behind Emma's desk, leaning his cane against the arm. He looked expectantly up at the Sheriff, who had remained standing near the window—as far from him as possible in the confined space. "I've come to retrieve my firearm. Assuming you'll release it, of course."

Emma turned to search through the endless piles for the metal box she'd locked the gun in. Because he hadn't caused any physical damage, she would be forced to return the weapon to him. And, since Ruby and Granny had been smart enough not to press charges, he'd remain a free man for the time being. She pulled a ring of keys from her belt, pushed one into the slot, and opened it. Gripping the gun by the barrel, she leaned over the desk, hand outstretched in offering. Gold took the weapon, lines on his face smoothing out in relief. Emma folded her arms, sure by his immobility he was not done. "Anything else?" she asked on a sigh.

The sudden release of breath seemed to catch his immediate attention, the pawnbroker's head swiveling until his eyes met hers. "Something the matter, dear?"

Answering a question with a question was a trademark of Gold's. Something so naturally effortless that Emma had never thought twice about it.

But didn't Henry have the exact same habit?

And the room began to shrink, all sound sucked away by some invisible black hole. She didn't know much about Henry's life before she came to Storybrooke, how much of it had been spent conversing with different people in town. Everyone knew him—of course they knew he was the mayor's kid. Adopted too, though no one would dare mention it to Henry, not if their just deserts were to be dished out via one heartless Regina Mills.

Although Emma knew one person who might have been willing to try.

She wanted to scream, to shout, to throw and break things repeatedly over his head. She wanted to demand answers, to ask if he had influenced Henry in any way.

She wanted to slap him.

She wanted to break their deal.

She wanted to take a flamethrower to his precious box.

But she didn't—_couldn't_. Not if she was going to keep him in the dark, find out his game plan. "You didn't come all this way on foot just for a gun."

Gold relaxed in his chair, pointing a finger at the Sheriff. "Right you are, Emma." He shrugged—the tiniest rise and fall of his shoulders, hardly discernable—fiddling with the safety, clicking it on and off. Emma clenched her teeth. "I wanted to ask you something," he mumbled down at the weapon.

She gestured to his damp hair with a small tilt of her head. "Does it involve swimming?"

He chuckled. "How about dinner?"

Emma felt a sudden pressure, like there was water in her ear or several cotton balls wedged all the way up to her brain, certain she heard him wrong. She hadn't been paying attention; of course his voice would have sounded muffled.

He could have said anything—that the sky was falling, the roof caving in. . . .

"What?"

He smiled toothlessly. "Dinner," he repeated. "Tomorrow evening."

Emma swallowed hard. Tried to find words. "Why?" she finally asked, confusion staining her voice, doubting she would've been flattered even if he _hadn't_ been holding a gun.

Gold's grin widened. "Business, of course," he replied calmly. "Say . . . seven o'clock?" The pawnbroker pushed himself to his feet, using his third leg for support, all the while keeping the same smug smile plastered on his face. "I don't bite, you know."

And, just as quickly as he'd arrived, Mr. Gold disappeared before the Sheriff could object.

Emma made a point of avoiding him for the next twenty–four hours.


	7. The Hope: Dinner With the Devil

_**Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT or its characters. **_

_And I am here still waiting_

_Though I still have my doubts_

_I am damaged at best_

_Like you've already figured out_

(Lifehouse, Broken)

**The Hope: Dinner With the Devil**

The pawnshop appeared empty when the door opened and a figure slipped inside, unnoticed. A red ladder stood directly next to the main entrance, leading up to a bare space above the door, where he remembered a golden bell had once tinkled, announcing his arrival. As he stepped further into the shop, he could see the treasures lining the walls and counters, some protected by glass cases. Some he recognized from his last visit months ago, some he didn't. Some beckoned him, gleaming dazzlingly in the light, while others seemed to whisper dark things that caused him to pause and search for the source.

He hadn't even reached the far counter when he heard the muffled sound of footsteps.

"Henry." The greeting was spoken in a pleasantly surprised tone to his back. "Good to see you out and about on a day such as this."

The mayor's son turned and smiled politely. "Good to see you, too, Mr. Gold."

Mr. Gold returned the smile, rounding the counter with an accompanying sound of jingling and wooden taps. "What can I do for you?"

Henry spied the bell dangling from the pawnbroker's gloved left hand. "Actually, I was wondering if _I_ could help _you_."

Mr. Gold raised an eyebrow, glancing at a point behind Henry. "Really?" He blinked and looked back down at his visitor. "Is that what you're here for—to help little old me?"

Henry shrugged, the movement shifting the book in his backpack. "Why not? It'll look good on my college application."

Gold chuckled softly; the boy certainly didn't get his charm from Regina. "I suppose it would." He held out the bell and pointed above the door. "Would you mind hanging this for me? That ladder and I don't quite get along, you see."

Henry accepted the bell. "Sure." Crossing the room and putting his foot on the first rung, he looked down at the newly–mended object, the only imperfection detectable only by a faint line of a lighter shade of gold running along its side. "When did it fall?"

"Oh, not long ago," Mr. Gold replied on a sigh, stepping closer to the ladder as he watched Henry climb slowly to the top, shooting an irritable side–glance at the door. "I have Ms. Swan to thank for that."

Henry froze. "_Emma_ broke it?" he asked incredulously, finger still on the hanging bell.

Mr. Gold nodded. "Not _intentionally_, I assume . . . but it was rather difficult to mend all the same." He lifted a finger as Henry began to step back down the ladder. "In fact—"

The door swung open without warning, narrowly missing a leg of the ladder. In came Regina, hair and heart as dark as her shadow, eyes widening in horror as her gaze slid over Mr. Gold and to her adopted son, who was halfway down—or up, from her perspective—the ladder. She moved to grab Henry's hand and help him down, giving him a stern look when both feet were on the ground. "Henry, what were you doing up there? You could have fallen!" She pulled him close in a smothering hug, heaving a sigh of relief at having him in one piece. Then she seemed to once again notice the pawnbroker. "Henry, wait outside for a moment. I want a word with Mr. Gold."

Henry, who was more than used to Regina barking orders, obeyed without complaint.

As soon as the door closed, the mayor turned on the shop owner. "What the _hell_ do you think you're doing? Using _my son_ to carry out your business affairs—"

"A _bell_, Your Majesty." Mr. Gold gestured to the spot above the door. "He offered to hang the bell for me. Volunteered to help, in fact," he added smugly, planting the cane between his feet for emphasis. "I hardly see how you would disapprove of such a charitable act."

Regina leaned forward slightly the way she always did when she believed she had the upper hand, appearing threatening—only not to him. "You'd be wise to watch your step, Gold. Or—"

Mr. Gold cocked an eyebrow challengingly. "Or else?" He lowered his voice, mocking Regina by leaning forward. "I believe you've threatened me before, dear, and despite our change in venue, it still doesn't work."

The mayor jerked back as if he'd attempted to bite her. Without another word, Regina left the shop, taking care to pull the door closed sharply behind her.

Mr. Gold smiled up at the bell when it rang loud and true, content at seeing it back in its proper place.

* * *

><p>He was cleaning his motorcycle when he noticed Henry casually lean against a parking meter next to it.<p>

"Did you find out anything?"

Henry looked left, then right—_no_. An obvious sign to August, though it would have appeared to anyone else that the kid was watching cars occasionally pass by on the road. "I put the bell back above his door. It fell a while ago, when Emma visited him."

August stood, keeping his eyes on the shining bike. So the Sheriff had been running a few extra errands before turning in for the night. Just like Gold. "Well, at least we know he's up to something."

"What do you mean?" Henry asked, frowning at his shoes.

"With Emma," August replied instantly. "He's been seen with her once before. At Granny's."

Henry bent down to retie his shoelaces. "What happened?"

"He—" The writer broke off, watching the kid out of the corner of his eye. Could he tell him the truth? Would it help Emma believe the stories? August picked up a wrench he'd cast aside. "I don't know. I just know he was there."

Henry straightened up, having retied both shoes, zipped up his jacket, and checked his reflection in the window of the nearest building. "I've gotta be home soon."

"You stopping by the station?"

"Yup."

August smiled. Of course he'd want to continue Operation Cobra when he knew he'd have time alone with Emma. "See you later, kid."

Henry crossed the street diagonally, heading for the Sheriff's Station. August watched him disappear through the door, then turned back to his motorcycle, shaking his head slightly.

If only people in town knew the truth—that the weight of lifting the curse rested on the mayor's adopted kid's shoulders. He grimaced when he realized Gold had been right. Emma would be more likely to believe her only son over a stranger any day. Though he wasn't a _complete_ stranger.

Ninety percent stranger, ten percent mysterious.

When he looked up and recognized a limping figure heading the same way Henry had earlier, August realized Gold had been waiting for a talk with the town Sheriff ever since their previous confrontation.

Which meant the pawnbroker had beaten him to it.

And that Henry had already left . . . without August noticing.

* * *

><p>"Please tell me you said ice pick."<p>

Mary Margaret dried the last plate and put the set away in a top cabinet. She hadn't expected Emma to believe her right off the bat, but that didn't make telling her any easier. Mary shook her head. "It was like he was . . . I don't know—sleepwalking or something. He didn't seem himself."

Emma's eyebrows rose disbelievingly. "You're telling me _David_ waltzed up to Gold's pawnshop and tried to pick the lock?"

Mary nodded.

The Sheriff put a hand on her hip and leaned against the counter. "What do you think he was after? A lost possession? Or maybe something stolen. . . ."

Mary Margaret didn't like what she saw flicker in her friend's eyes—eagerness, she realized, to catch the pawnbroker in the act or find proof he'd clearly been in the wrong. "Emma—"

"Wait." The Sheriff glanced at the clock in sudden understanding, then back at Mary. "I can find out. Tonight."

The school teacher frowned. "How?"

Emma mentally kicked herself. Now she'd done it, gone and pushed the one button she'd forbade herself to touch around Mary Margaret. Not to mention the button hadn't even _existed_ until the day before. Emma closed her eyes and sighed after a moment, knowing there was nowhere to run now that her friend wouldn't find her, knowing she'd have to come clean. She opened them, bracing herself. _It's just five words, maybe if I say it really fast—_

"He asked me to dinner."

—_she'll look mortified. Awesome._

* * *

><p>Despite Mary Margaret's objections, Emma arrived at seven o'clock sharp in her regular work attire. She'd even brought the gun and badge along just in case the pawnbroker needed any sort of reminder concerning what she was capable of, though as long as Gold respected personal space boundaries, she figured she wouldn't need them.<p>

Still, better to be safe than sorry.

Emma raised a fist and knocked lightly on the front door, trying not to imagine how she would have looked in one of Mary Margaret's dresses. After getting over the initial shock, her friend had simply lit up at the idea of helping her out, dolling Emma up for a dinner she wasn't even sure was going to happen. Was it even dinner? She'd never even seen the guy _eat_ before. Maybe he just wanted to talk business, like he'd said.

Then again, Mr. Gold had never kept things that simple.

"If he really wanted to kill me, he would've done it by now," she'd joked with Mary. Then at her that's–not–funny–at–all–Emma look, she'd added, "Seriously, it's just business. No worries."

_Unless he's waiting until my death benefits him most._

The door swung inward, and there he was, smiling—always smiling, she realized—dressed as usual in a black suit with a colorful tie. Emma maintained eye contact until she could no longer deny the fact it officially creeped her out, and she stepped forward, aiming to push past him into the house so they could get the whole thing over with and she'd be able to go home and tell Mary Margaret how boring dinner with Mr. Gold had been.

Except none of that happened.

Gold leaned comfortably against the door frame, right forearm easily supporting his weight, which he'd shifted to his left foot, and it was then she noticed his cane happened to be nowhere in sight. He watched Emma with a sense of enjoyment as she staggered back, his figure acting like a brick wall that had risen from the ground on cue at her impatience. The Sheriff caught a strong scent of his cologne mixed with what smelled like hamburger meat—a strange combination that was surprisingly not unpleasant.

"Where is it?"

The sudden urgency in his voice threw her off. Emma blinked. "Where's what?"

At her confusion, his dark orbs flashed violently, his tone lowering to a dangerous growl. "Let us not play _games_, Ms. Swan. You know to what I am referring."

And then she remembered—_the box._ "It's safe, if that's what you mean."

He nodded curtly once and straightened up, cane—from wherever he'd grabbed it—in hand. "Good." The pawnbroker stepped aside to allow her entrance. "Please, do come in."

Emma brushed past him rather quickly and hoped he paid no mind to the action, though she couldn't ever recall a time he hadn't studied her every move. She waited for the door to close and Gold to step into her range of vision before daring to speak again. "Is that all you wanted?" Emma bit back a witty insult when he ignored the question and proceeded to the grand kitchen, but she followed him closely, determined to get an answer one way or another. "I thought you said something about business."

"That I did." Setting his cane aside, Mr. Gold scooped a large helping of what looked like macaroni noodles, melted cheese, and the meat she'd smelled onto an ornate plate and handed it to her. Emma took the offering without looking at it, dogging him all the way to the open dining room, where he settled into the seat furthest from the entryway, leaving her to sit at the other end. Gold indicated the food on her plate. "It's not poisoned." He raised his right hand in oath—a little mockingly if Emma was being honest with herself. "You have my word."

The Sheriff felt his eyes on her even when she glanced down at the dinner he'd prepared. She could see cooked tomatoes and bits of chopped onion amidst the steaming pile, and her mouth watered right on cue. Emma picked up the fork that had clearly been meant for her from the table and scraped together a small portion to taste. Flavor exploded in her mouth, and once she had swallowed and looked back at Gold, she saw the hint of a smile adorning his features. "Not bad," she admitted finally, returning to the food.

"Thank you, Emma."

Her head snapped up at hearing her first name, so used to "Ms. Swan" or "Sheriff." "What is it?" she asked, covering up her surprise by hooking another forkful.

Gold grinned toothlessly. "Hamburger casserole—a specialty of mine."

"Isn't that more of a soccer mom's area of expertise?"

The pawnbroker artfully side–stepped her harmless jab. "I do, you know," he replied after a moment, appearing to study his hands. "Or, well—used to." Gold threw a blameful glance at his cane.

Emma frowned. "Do what?"

"Dance, of course," Gold said, as if it should have been obvious.

It took her a while to understand the seemingly random change of subject. _Dancing,_ Emma thought. _He used to dance. _What had she said that day at the pawnshop? The candles had smelled like vanilla, apple pie, and citrus. . . .

Oddly like his cologne.

Emma cleared her throat. "So," she mumbled. "Business."

Gold folded his hands and rested them on the table, staring intently at her. With a practiced ease that could fool anyone into believing he'd done nothing but break bad news to people all his life, he said, "About your son . . . I can't help you."

The Sheriff nearly choked on the casserole. "_What_?"

"Presented before a court, Henry would appear . . . troubled, to say the least," he explained in a careful tone. "His history with therapy would likely be made plain to the judge, which could very well benefit Regina instead of you, Ms. Swan."

"So you're saying . . . ?"

Gold sighed impatiently and attempted a different approach to get his point across. "Everybody loves a hero, Emma. A brave soul willing to sacrifice everything for her biological son and the greater good? I can sell that. A mother who pretends to believe her son's silly fantasies?" The pawnbroker tilted his head to the side, watching her with raised brows. "Regina could easily poke holes—"

Emma stared incredulously at him. "So try honesty!"

Mr. Gold leaned back in his chair, fiddling with his cane. "It's never been the best color on me, dear. I wouldn't advise it."

Emma pushed away from the table abruptly. "Excuse me." And she left the room before he could say anything.

The Sheriff instinctively headed for the front door, intent on speeding away down the road in her yellow Bug. She'd go home, tell Mary Margaret dinner had been cancelled, and turn in for the night. Problem solved.

Only she caught sight of the chipped cup in its cabinet in her haste, and curiosity simply got the better of her.

Emma held the fragile thing for about five seconds before he came limping in.

"What _are_ you doing?"

The glass teacup slipped through her fingers, and time seemed to stop until the tiny object collided with the hard floor and shattered, scattering pieces in every possible direction.

Emma unfroze her limbs, daring to look at Gold. His face had frozen, mouth slightly agape, eyes fixed on the destroyed cup at her feet. She stuttered horribly, backing away, more glass crunching under her shoes, apologizing like mad—

"Go."

"I—"

"_Now_," he growled, bending over the shards protectively, cane long since abandoned. "And don't come back."

Emma, shaking like a leaf, stumbled blindly out the door, wondering if the disaster had been a dream, _praying _she'd wake up and find none of it had ever happened.

The Sheriff had a hard time starting her Bug.


	8. The Hope: Ice Cream Sunday

_**Disclaimer: Not mine.**_

_And please don't stand so close to me  
>I'm having trouble breathing<br>I'm afraid of what you'll see right now_

(Christina Perri, Distance)

_"Emotional entanglements can lead us down very dangerous paths." —_Mr. Gold, 1x11

**The Hope: Ice Cream Sunday**

Placing her fingertips delicately against the dark wood as if mere contact might cause it to disintegrate before her very eyes, Emma Swan slowly urged the door open. Every instinct told the Sheriff to turn and run back down the steps to the parked squad car as she squinted into the impenetrable darkness—but that wasn't an option. She pulled the gun from its holster, letting it hang loosely at her side, her other hand holding a peace offering that was long overdue. Emma shouldered the door wider as she stepped inside to let in the rapidly fading light provided by the setting sun. The sky burned beautiful shades of pink and orange over her shoulder, though it offered little aid in the end. With only a rectangular space under her boots illuminated, Emma silently debated whether or not to venture further without a flashlight, but ultimately decided it wasn't worth the extra trip to her vehicle. Besides, could she really face this again—walking up to an empty house that sent goose bumps trailing across her arms? She took a careful step away from the light and into the dimness, her grip on the weapon seeming loose no matter how tight she clutched it.

"Gold?"

Silence greeted the town Sheriff; a faint sound of chirping crickets began somewhere behind her, out in the night where darkness didn't seem so . . . suffocating. Emma glanced wildly around when the feeling hit—an unmistakable sensation of being watched—the middle of her back. Feeling paranoid, she found the doorway was empty, no one was looming there like some crazy killer. She turned in the direction she believed the living room to be and reluctantly returned the gun to its holster; perhaps returning his weapon had been a bad idea. Using her newly–freed arm as a guide, she was relieved to find the smooth surface of a wall.

Emma wasn't expecting to grab hold of something unmistakably human.

She jerked away from it—arm, leg, hand?—quickly and took several hasty steps backward, though she'd barely brushed against whatever _it_ was. When no advancement on her was made, she found it again after a few tries, frowning when her fingers curled around something soft leaning against it. The Sheriff tugged at the fabric and realized it was a suit jacket, and that the object it hung on was a wooden coat hanger.

Emma laughed uneasily once. "I'm not really in the mood for hide–and–seek right now, so if you're here—"

Light exploded in front of her eyes, and Emma put a hand up to shield them from the brightness. A lamp had flickered to life, revealing a light blue armchair, a grandfather clock, the corner of a sofa. She hurriedly entered the room, the swift and eager clippingsounds of her boots more distinguishable, her adjusted gaze falling upon a hunched figure occupying the couch.

Anger flared up first. Emma opened her mouth furiously—

And immediately shut it when she saw the look upon his face.

It had been weeks—a little over a month—since she'd last seen him. Since _anyone_ had. And never had she seen him like this, imagined he _could_ be like this. Dead. Cold and distant, frozen and lifeless. Eyes dark, blank, and drooping from lack of sleep. Face unshaven. Hands clasped so tightly in his lap—so _desperately_—it was as if he were clinging to life itself.

_"I know how to recognize a desperate soul." _

Emma, feeling like she had severely invaded his privacy—a moment not meant for her eyes—hesitated, frowning severely, unable to tell whether she should leave or stay. She shoved her free hand into her back pocket, deposited her peace offering on the glass coffee table in front of the sofa without looking at him any longer, and turned away, afraid and uneasy to witness the pawnbroker in such a vulnerable state.

_Takes one to know one._

"Vanilla."

The Sheriff halted her footsteps, the dead, hoarse voice barely detected by her eardrums. Emma half–turned her head so that her chin was nearly parallel to her shoulder, unsure he had even spoken.

A slight scraping sound of glass meeting glass, and then his hand was wrapping around the cone, melting ice cream dribbling down over the edge to coat his pale fingers.

He seemed not to notice. "Thank you, Sheriff."

Emma felt her mouth curve up slightly at one corner. She settled on silence since she wasn't sure what to say, not trusting her own voice. How could she help him, anyway? Hadn't she caused him enough pain by shattering that cup? The cup had broken, and so he had. That much she'd gotten right. The how, she knew, but not the _why_. Why had she even picked it up? Why did it mean so much to him?

How could he ever get past it?

He'd told her not to come back, though even she knew he wouldn't have expected her to start listening now, not this far into the game—not that it _was_ a game anymore. At least, not a game he fully controlled. Because she'd come along and knocked the board aside.

And now they were playing a new game.

One she hadn't meant to start.

She watched as he took a few small, almost reluctant bites of the treat, warring with herself. Finally, Emma mustered up enough strength to walk to his side. "I'm sorry, Mr. Gold," she began, feeling like a child apologizing for breaking a prized possession of their parents'. "And I know an ice cream won't make up for it, but. . . ." The Sheriff trailed off, eyes locked on a small object on the coffee table.

The cup, whole once again, complete with its chip on the rim.

* * *

><p>It was impossible, Emma knew that. But it was there, perfect and unbroken, like she had never dropped it. Like she had never gotten so angry at his unwillingness to help her do what was best for Henry and stormed out of the dining room.<p>

"You fixed it."

_Stupid,_ she though instantly. _What a stupid thing to say . . . _

He stared up at her after a few heartbeats of unnerving silence, studying her face for signs of sincerity. Or lack thereof. "Yes," Gold replied finally, seeming to find what he'd been searching for. He took another small lick of vanilla ice cream. "Nothing a little magic couldn't fix."

Whenever he talked this way, so serious about something so imaginary and _not real_, Emma always had the urge to snap her fingers next to each of her ears to make sure they were still working properly. _Magic_? Fix a cup that had practically been destroyed, a million glass pieces scattered wildly across the floor? Unreachable pieces, broken forever. Fusing the shards back together, smoothing them out to perfection the way they looked now—it was a feat even superglue couldn't hope to accomplish.

The quiet that fell between them again felt unbreakable. Emma nearly responded with, "Did you forget to pay the electric bill or something?" just to have something to say, something to think about, but didn't have the heart to mock him.

He beat her to the punch, anyway.

"You needn't apologize, Miss Swan," Gold said softly. "Although, I do enjoy the gesture." He held up the half–eaten ice cream cone.

"Don't be stupid—"

"Oh, believe me, I know what I'm doing, Emma," he whispered dangerously, a ghost of the pawnbroker the Sheriff remembered. "And, for the record, you still owe me a few favors."

"Right," she said. "I've been thinking about that. I owe you, you owe me. . . . Why don't we just cancel out the favors and call it a night?" Emma didn't think she could take anything more from him now; she'd done enough damage. "It would still leave you with the upper hand, as always."

Gold smiled and finished off the cone, placing an innocent hand over his heart. "Thank you, my dear, but once an agreement is made, I'm forced to uphold my end of the deal, no matter what either party desires to amend." He stood with the aid of his cane, so close to her now, too close, his warm breath smelling of vanilla. "A deal is a deal, after all."

Emma stood her ground, arms akimbo. "It was you," she realized aloud.

Mr. Gold frowned. "Whatever do you mean?"

"You gave the book to her, didn't you?"

The pawnbroker shrugged innocently. "I'm not sure I understand what you're implying—"

"The book, Henry's fairytale book," Emma said impatiently. "You gave it to Mary Margaret _knowing_ she'd give it to him." When he continued to stare at her blankly, mouth slightly open, she took it as confirmation, shaking her head once. "I can't believe I trusted you. How could—?"

The question died in her throat as she watched his eyes darken once more, hardening to brace himself against more pain. Backtracking in her mind, the Sheriff tried to remember her words. What could she possibly have said to rouse this sort of reaction?

"I see," said Gold finally, rounding the coffee table to step past her to the grandfather clock. He kept his back to her as he continued in a subdued tone: "Trust is rare nowadays, Miss Swan, and if I do not have yours, I'm afraid you must return the case I bestowed to you."

Emma's jaw clenched reflexively—did he really think she couldn't handle a _box_?—and folded her arms. "And if I refuse?"

"Do not _test me_, Sheriff Swan," he growled quietly, flexing his left hand, fingers curling and uncurling slowly. The threat still lingered even after Emma had attempted to shake it off. "Or we shall both be disappointed. Merely answer one question: Do you trust me?"

For a moment, Emma stood staring out the window over the blue armchair, watching as a streetlamp flickered to life, casting odd shadows when a tree branch swayed gently in front of it in the wind. It would be easier this way, she decided, lips parting, by not looking at him.

Easier to lie.

The Sheriff closed her eyes, opening them only when she had bowed her head towards the floor. "Not at first," she admitted, sprinkling a bit of truth amongst the falsehood of the whole of her statement. "Not right away . . ." Emma risked glancing back up at the pawnbroker, his back still facing her. "But I do now."

* * *

><p>Emma left the station around five o'clock Sunday afternoon, taking care to lock up on her way out, unsure if she'd make it back in time to finish up the night shift. As she turned the key in the lock, she sighed heavily and turned around. The Sheriff pocketed the set of keys in her jacket, brushing past him, having seen his reflection in the glass door.<p>

"Please tell me you're here selling candy grams for Henry's school fundraiser," Emma said as she headed for her squad car, her visitor following close behind, though she already knew the answer.

"Actually, I was hoping we could talk." August leaned up against the driver's side door, preventing her access to the vehicle. He quirked a brow. "How about over dinner?"

_No, _Emma thought almost instantly. _No, no, no. . . . _"You're kidding, right?" she asked with a forced smile, remembering a night not too long ago when someone else had asked her almost the exact same question. Remembered the boat she was left in, stranded in the middle of the ocean, no paddles to get back to shore.

August appeared amused, but the Sheriff thought she detected a hint of genuine hurt in his eyes. "Why would I joke about something like having dinner with you?"

Emma nudged him aside to get to the vehicle, suppressing all emotion, shoving even the slightest hint of feeling down, down, down where she could not reach it. Numbing herself so she could feel nothing. Because she had work to do. "I've gotta go, August."

The writer cast his gaze to the concrete. "You're going to see him, aren't you?" He took her silence and frozen form as affirmation. His hand curled around the top of the now open door to stop her from closing it. "When will you understand he doesn't give a damn about your best interests? Emma, you don't know anything _about _him—"

"I don't know anything about _you_," she countered, cutting him off flat. The Sheriff took note of the sudden pain she'd inflicted, realized she was doing what she did best yet again: distancing herself from everyone. It was the perfect remedy for mending a broken heart or keeping a whole one from becoming broken and damaged beyond repair. Emma didn't hate August; she just couldn't understand his motives. "And what do you care?" she continued, part of her attempting to cover up the harmful words that had lashed out at him, the other truly curious. "I'm not a child, August; I don't need you to look after me. I can handle Gold on my own."

The writer released the door like it had burned him. Emma took the opportunity to pull it shut, ignoring his reaction, brought the engine to life. And August watched, stunned, as the squad car disappeared down the street, around the corner and did not come back.

* * *

><p>Emma knew it was her fault the antiques in his dark shop were gathering dust, that he had broken faster than the chipped china on the coffee table, knew half–truths and dancing around each other would have to come to an end. Her hands balled into fists at her sides to stop their shaking, awaiting a response.<p>

Gold faced her, air of chauvinism back in play. "To be expected, of course," he said, waving a hand on which the golden rings threw dim light oddly against the walls, reminding Emma for some reason of the flash of Prince Charming's sword as he'd battled a dragon. She wiped the vision from her mind quickly, dismissing it. She'd read part of Henry's book—maybe a little _too_ much—but it had nothing to do with Gold, with anyone or anything in Storybrooke. He pointed a finger at her, then gestured to himself. "Clever, but predictable. If you're going to lie, Ms. Swan, at least learn how it's done." _Perhaps I could teach you._

She didn't deny it, but her voice was tinged with fury anyway. "Does it really matter that much to you—what I believe? Who I trust?"

He glared at her, eyes harder and flatter than flint, challenging Emma to carry on their circling of one another, though Gold remained quiescent momentarily, either unable or unwilling to answer. It occurred to Emma that he might not have asked if he didn't care, but how could he? "You know _nothing_ of what matters to me," the pawnbroker spat.

_"Emma, you don't know anything_ about_ him—"_

"I know that cup means more than you'd ever be willing to admit."

His eyebrows rose. "Are you _sure_?" Gold asked in a tone that suggested he believed she wasn't.

Her nails dug sharply into her palm. "One hundred percent."

"And if you're wrong?"

"I'm not."

Mr. Gold smiled. "Your confidence never fails to amuse me, Sheriff."


	9. The Serpent: Savior

**A/N: I cheated a little this chapter.**

_**Disclaimer: Not mine.**_

_I am not worthy to be called your savior_

_I am not going to catch all your blame_

_But to warn you some may fall on my name_

(The Classic Crime, The End)

**The Serpent: Savior**

From her perch, Emma could see the stars, little white dots amidst an ocean of blackness above her head. No matter how many times she tried counting them, slouched comfortably against the wooden frame of the structure with one arm propped lazily atop a bent knee, she got lost in the dizzying constellations, and the process would begin anew. But the Sheriff didn't mind losing herself, if only for a little while. Not tonight.

The bleak wind left her once–pale checks red and raw, and she pulled on her gloves from the pockets of her warm leather jacket. The material seemed insistent on reflecting her body heat, and though Emma couldn't complain on that front, it left nearly half of her frozen, the other sweltering. She drew in both legs and wrapped her arms around the pair, resting her head against her knees, which acted as shelter from the cold night air. Despite the gusty wind, Emma continued to gaze up at the sky, her thoughts miles away where she hoped her son was fast asleep. She wished he could be here with her. Her hand subconsciously found the leather–bound book at her side, and then the Sheriff lifted her head, confused by the sudden lack of sound. Glancing around, she noticed the trees had were no longer succumbing to the wind, still blades of grass shining as if they were wet with dew in the moonlight. She clutched at the book without looking, gathering it in her lap.

If anyone knew how to escape reality, it was Henry. And practically every time he had, the storybook had been in his possession. Emma folded back the cover slowly and drank in the colorful artwork of another world.

Snow White—the bandit with a trusty bow, forced by the Evil Queen into biting the most tempting Forbidden Fruit. Prince Charming—brave and noble, almost always brandishing a sword throughout the finely–pressed pages, unafraid and to the rescue. Jiminy Cricket—small and green, perched on a shoulder, fluttering by an ear to offer advice. Red Riding Hood—a terrifying wolf under the moon without her blood–colored cloak. All familiar, all a little warped from the fairytales Emma remembered reading as a child—

Like lightning, a shadow pierced the night, a twig cracking in two as it approached from a distance, steps steady, yet somehow uneven. Silver moonlight washed over the form, then disappeared in a blink; glancing up, Emma witnessed a single cloud block out the glittering and gaping hole in the darkness hanging over them both. She cursed violently under her breath when she realized she'd left her belt in the yellow Bug parked in the street several yards away, unreachable, her weapon and badge lying safe in the passenger seat. The way the shadow _moved_—an unnerving combination of slithering and swaying—was familiar, like the form was sizing her up before the initial attack. Emma gripped the book tighter, her knuckles whitening. She shook off the unsettling feeling, swallowed any last traces of fear, and opened her mouth. She noticed the shadow's breath swirled out in wisps that dissipated quicker than smoke.

"Emma Swan," the black form said in something of a greeting. "Sheriff by day, bookworm by night." It thrust out an arm, steam billowing from a Styrofoam cup cocooned in five gloved fingers.

The Sheriff released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, little white plumes mixing with the familiar shadow's. Moonlight shimmered down, suddenly returned, and Emma could see her suspicions had been correct. "Gold." The pocketknife in the front pocket of her jeans seemed eager to burn through the dyed fabric, reminding her of its presence. Her uneasy glance shifted from the pawnbroker to the hot beverage in his hand, and then back again. "You're not drunk, are you?"

Despite the lack of light, Emma could have sworn she saw his mouth twitch up into a small smile, head tilting back momentarily in victory. Though why the question had made him happy, she didn't know. "Indeed not," he replied smugly, setting the drink gently beside her, his cane by the nearest wooden support of the playground. He looked up at her immobile form. "Do you mind if I join you?"

Emma closed the book, picked up his offering, and waved a hand over the empty space beside her. "If you can," she said in light, challenging tone.

Faster than she expected, he turned his back to Henry's castle, placing two hands behind him. In one smooth motion, Mr. Gold lifted himself up, landing quite agilely for a man with a bad leg, sighing contently. Emma wondered if the exhalation was because the weight had been taken off his leg, but saw he was no longer concerned about himself. She followed his gaze and realized he was studying the stars quietly. "Now I see," said Gold softly after a moment, eyes lowering back to ground level, veering slightly left. "It's a wonderful view."

Something seemed different in that furtive glance, something she'd never seen before. Something she couldn't put her finger on just yet. But his tone made her turn away, suppress a scoff by exhaling through her nose, shake her head once.

"What is it?"

"You," Emma said immediately. "Walking around town, pretending you don't have a heart for anyone or anything other than yourself." She met his curious and partially wounded gaze. "It must be . . . draining."

Gold folded his hands, swung his dangling left leg. "As I imagine it is for you, Sheriff. Carrying on without proper custody of your son."

Emma frowned. A low blow in response to a mere observation. Well, the old Gold was back for a visit, and the brief glimpse of another part of him she'd gotten—gone. For good, it seemed. Just like that.

"Quite an injustice, if you ask me," he continued. He let the sentence hang in the air, an invitation for her to take the bait, to jump in and make another deal, no doubt.

Emma ignored it completely. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course." Gold smiled, obviously convinced she'd taken a bite.

She held up the rectangular object in her lap. "How did you come across this book?"

For a moment, Mr. Gold looked incredulous, maybe even a little offended. Then his gaze fell back to his lap, where his hands were still folded. "I do get the occasional customer from time to time, Miss Swan," said the pawnbroker, voice gradually growing more serious. "I should have the records in my shop. However . . ." Gold cast a sidelong glance at her, raising an index finger. "Perhaps I would do better to remember—"

"What's your price?" Emma growled impatiently. Tired. She was _so tired_ of his games.

Gold quirked a brow. "Did I say something to upset you?"

Emma practically threw herself off her son's castle, tucking the book under one arm. She landed a little ungracefully, but decided not to show it had had any effect on her, feeling Gold's smiling eyes on her back. The Sheriff straightened up, turned and snatched the cup from behind her, and started a mental checklist to keep herself under control. _Don't look at him. Get to the car. Drive home._ After all, she couldn't kill him, even if she wanted to. Emma frowned. _Did_ she want to? The grass crunched quietly underfoot as she took more and more steps away from him. _Left, right, left..._

"Miss Swan, please!" Emma's footsteps faltered when she heard a thud, a frustrated swear. But she smiled and continued on, not once looking back. On her way to the Bug, she dropped the drink into a trash can, heading for the driver's seat. Ducking inside the yellow car, Emma shoved a key into the ignition and twisted. The engine roared to life, bright headlights illuminating something bright and glinting—something _gold._

The top of a cane.

The Sheriff rolled down the window. "What the hell are you doing, Gold?" she shouted into the night. _Just one day without any complications—is that so much to ask?_

The pawnbroker crossed in front of the car and stopped on Emma's side of the vehicle. Mr. Gold leaned down, peering at her over the partially open window. "I know him, the writer," he said quickly, grip tightening on the cane. "Or, well—_knew_ him." Gold's eyes flicked away for a moment, burning with anger and sadness and something else. Fear? "He's . . . gone."

Emma sat quietly for a moment, letting the information sink in. The writer of Henry's book had _died_? And Gold had somehow known him—probably through a slippery deal—obtained the writer's book. But for what purpose? Surely _Gold_ couldn't be interested in fairytales, not the cold and distant pawnbroker she knew, not the one standing outside her car, spinning wild stories to . . . to _what_? Annoy her? Get even? Nothing about Gold made sense. And it had nearly driven her to insanity several times over.

Pushing the door open roughly, Emma climbed out of her Bug, causing Mr. Gold to stumble back a few steps to prevent getting hit. She slammed the door shut hard, glaring daggers at the pawnbroker. The Sheriff was making a fist, raising her arm, and stepping forward before she was consciously aware of what she was doing—

Gold dodged her punch, hearing the air whistle past his ear, felt it tickle his chin. His right leg screamed in protest, but he easily shifted the weight back to his left. Mr. Gold's eyes flashed, eyebrows raising challengingly, knowingly. While the sheriff acted on her impulses, he knew she wouldn't hurt him. Not with Henry's safety still at stake; she still needed his help, whether she wanted to admit it or not. "Nice arm you have there."

"You could have just _told me_," said Emma furiously, ignoring him. She sighed and threw her arms out. "Do I look that incapable of taking the truth?" Seeing his expression and mouth opening to reply, she said, "Don't answer that. Just . . ." _Start, stop. Start, stop. _"What do you _want_ from me?"

Gold remained calm despite Emma being on the verge of a breakdown. "I want you on my side, of course."

"But _why_?" she demanded. "Because you hate Regina? Because you believe she's an Evil Queen from far, far away and I can help you destroy her because I'm the savior, the one who's supposed to bring back all the happy endings?" Emma shook her head. "_Bull_." She threw an arm out again, this time gesturing to their surroundings. "In case you haven't noticed, this is the _real world_. Do you see any fairies or dragons or Dark Curses running around here? Because _I_ sure as hell don't." The Sheriff yanked the car door back open, pausing momentarily to add, "And even if I was destined to save this town, you guys would all be screwed."

Emma froze, her veins turning to ice when he moved and held fast to her wrist. The grip wasn't crushing her like she expected it to be, but gentle. And . . . _warm_.

"Perhaps," he agreed softly. "But you are."

* * *

><p>"How about . . . blueberry?"<p>

Mary Margaret shook her head.

"Pumpkin?"

She frowned deeply. "Definitely not."

"Okay, that leaves—apple?"

Mary sighed. "Henry, maybe we should make something else."

Henry raised his eyebrows at her from across the room. "So you _don't_ want to make apple pie for Emma?" He smiled. "It's okay. I understand." He started putting the ingredients needed for the dessert away, back in their proper places.

The schoolteacher's frown returned. "What do you mean?"

"Well, it's just . . ." Henry shrugged. "It makes sense. You're Snow White."

Mary Margaret sighed sadly. Every time Henry brought up fairytales, she instantly regretted giving him the book, filling his head with fictional stories. To him, every person in town was a character, the only twist being none of them _knew_ who they were, what they'd done in the past. And Henry seemed certain he was the only one who did know, who could find out. But, of course, the difficult part was on the savior. She had to break the curse.

And she didn't believe.

A knock on the door brought the schoolteacher back to reality, and she stood to answer it. _Can Emma be back already?_ The Sheriff had called earlier, saying she wouldn't be back for dinner. And so Henry had come straight to the apartment after finding the station locked, hoping to see Emma. And he'd found Mary Margaret instead. But he'd insisted on staying and baking something for his biological mother, most likely just to have a reason to stay.

Pulling back the door, the schoolteacher found the person standing in the doorway was definitely not Emma.

But David Nolan.

* * *

><p>Emma's head whipped around so she could see his serious expression. So, what—he believed too? Was that why he'd gotten the book? Had he first convinced Henry this stuff was real? The Sheriff yanked her wrist out of his grasp. "You're insane."<p>

That devilish smile was back. "Never said I wasn't, dearie."

"Why do you believe?" Emma asked, jaw clenching. "Why do you think that crap's real?"

"I was there, of course."

"Were you really?" she asked sarcastically.

"Yes."

Emma shook her head again. _This town. _Storybrooke wasn't exactly a popular vacation spot, but that didn't mean it was automatically full of people from another world. The Sheriff couldn't help but scoff. "Cute," she said. "Real cute, Gold." She leaned heavily against the door, invading his space for a change. "You know, if you wanted to mock me, you easily could've done that at Granny's. Where there are _witnesses._"

The pawnbroker leaned so close that their noses were almost touching. "_One never can be too careful_."

Emma drew back sharply, his hot breath tickling the skin on her neck. She glared at him with flames dancing in her eyes as she climbed back into the Bug, started her vehicle, and stomped hastily on the gas pedal. The car rolled on down the street, slow as ever. Emma took a deep breath with her hands on the wheel, shaking off the conversation, trying to forget the horrible whiff of lanolin she'd caught when he'd leaned towards her.

Just before she turned the corner, the Sheriff realized the reflection in the side mirror was moving. To her immense irritation, Emma saw it was Gold, waving at her like she'd just left a party at his house. _Come back soon,_ he seemed to be saying, though his lips weren't moving.

She'd just only clicked off the safety, pointed, aimed—

When the left side mirror exploded in a shower of glass.


	10. The Hope: Selfish Love

**A/N: Things are going to start heating up quite a bit from here on.**

_**Disclaimer: Not mine . . . as usual.**_

_Over the line, can't define what I'm after  
>I always turn the car around...<em>

(O.A.R., Shattered)

_Stay with me_

_I think you could save this beast_

_...After all these violent days_

_You still love_

_And I still take_

(Barcelona, The Takers)

**The Hope: Selfish Love**

Out of the corner of her eye, Regina saw the door to her office fly open with enough force to bang back loudly against the wall. Had she not been expecting a visitor, she might've flinched. Rapid, clipping footsteps echoed slightly in the open room, and just as Regina moved to set aside a more glorified issue of the _Daily Mirror_, a glittering object was tossed brusquely onto her large and finely polished mahogany desk—right between her spread forearms.

"Congratulations, Madam Mayor," said the visitor bitterly. "Today's your lucky day."

Regina eyed the Sheriff's badge on the desk suspiciously before glancing up into the defiant face of Emma Swan. "And why is that, I wonder?" she pondered aloud, a smile curling her lips as leaned back in her chair to better see Henry's biological mother, read the answer in guarded hazel orbs.

Emma folded her arms. "I officially resign as Sheriff of Storybrooke. So you can do all the necessary paperwork, hand the badge over to Sidney, throw a victory party and invite the whole town—I don't care. Just as long as I still get to see my son."

Regina's eyebrows raised. "You're leaving," she said bluntly, dubiously, though it wasn't a question. She pushed herself to her feet and rushed on before the former Sheriff had a chance to interrupt. "You really expect me to believe that, Miss Swan, after _everything_ you've done here—"

"No." Emma felt her jaw muscles tighten involuntarily. "I don't, not in the slightest," she scoffed. "But you should. Because I _am_ leaving. Tonight," Emma added at enduring the burning glare Regina carelessly threw at her.

Regina met the former Sheriff's gaze and pretended to take the news with partial difficulty for a moment. "I assume Henry knows nothing of your plans," she mumbled accusingly. Then her voice took on a tone of curiosity. "What, might I ask, caused the sudden change of heart?"

Emma nearly laughed—she knew Regina honestly didn't care whether she lived or died, let alone the reason why she'd decided to leave Storybrooke—but didn't, forcing it down with a hard swallow almost immediately when it rose in her throat. "Does it matter? You've wanted me gone since I set foot in this town, so fine. I'm going. But here's the thing." Emma took a few steps forward—enough to get Regina's attention and make the Mayor understand her sincerity, she hoped. "You hurt my son, I hurt _you_. And I'm sure you'd do the same. So what's the point in standing around, acting like you suddenly give a damn about what happens to me?"

The Mayor flashed a gleaming smile. "You're right," she agreed, much to Emma's surprise. "But I do care about Henry, and I'm not so sure you have the right to see him if you willingly choose to leave him behind."

"I'd take him with me, but you'd never agree."

"Did you really think I would?"

"Why do you think I didn't bother asking?"

Regina uttered a sound of content—something between a laugh and a sigh. "I'll consider it."

Emma frowned. "I leave tonight."

"So I've heard," Regina continued, still smug, as if she hadn't heard the former Sheriff. "I'll have my answer by then."

Emma dipped her head once and turned to leave. Just as she placed her hand on the door handle, Regina's voice stopped her, smoother than velvet:

"Oh, and Miss Swan?" Emma could hear the smile in her voice, the victory in her words even before the Mayor said them. "I'm sure Mr. Gold will be fascinated to learn you've resigned as Sheriff." The former Sheriff looked over her shoulder, and she could see Regina had resumed her scanning of the newspaper on her desk, settled down into her black chair. "I know he . . . _burned_ a lot of bridges to land you the job."

Shock washed over her, and Emma could have sworn her hand had frozen to the door.

* * *

><p><em>Emma pressed her foot down on the brake, put the Bug into park, and slumped back against the driver's seat after killing both the engine and headlights, trying to slow her breathing. The Sheriff glanced out the window and noticed the side mirror was barely attached to her brightly–colored vehicle, practically hanging on by a thread. Emma let out a frustrated sigh. How could she have let him get to her? <em>Again_?_

_Of course Mary Margaret looked wide–eyed and concerned when she opened the door to her apartment, finding Emma angry and distant, her voice hoarse, her throat raw. She ushered her friend in, offered to make tea, but Emma declined hastily, saying she'd swing by Granny's to get hot chocolate._

_And then her eyes fell upon the other two people in the room._

_Henry, the biggest smile she'd ever seen plastered on his face, stood from his seat at the kitchen table and hurried over, grabbing her hand in his smaller one. He towed her along until they reached the table, where he urged her to sit down. A large dish of pumpkin pie sat the in center of it, topped with a generous blob of whipped cream. Emma's stomach growled, and only then did she realize how hungry she was. Mary Margaret brought over four plates and forks, started to cut the dessert, when she seemed to acknowledge David Nolan's presence again. _

_He glanced awkwardly from Mary to Emma and back again, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. "I can go—"_

_"No," Emma said firmly, surprising both Henry and the schoolteacher. She cleared her throat. "I mean, stay. I need to ask you a few questions."_

_David instantly raised his hands—a gesture that could mean he meant no harm, or that he was innocent. The Sheriff couldn't discern which. "If this is about the other day, I swear I didn't—" He broke off suddenly, turning away, looking guilty._

_Emma met Mary Margaret's troubled gaze. "Could you take Henry home for me?" She pulled the keys from her pocket and set them on the table. "Take my car and she won't know the difference. Just drop him off at the street, make sure he gets in okay." _

_"But I didn't even get to eat the pie we made," Henry pointed out._

_A little shaken at realizing she would be driving up to the Mayor's house, Mary grabbed the keys, wrapped the dessert on the kid's plate in saran wrap, and whisked him out the door, saying he could eat on the way. Emma waved and watched the door close behind them. _

_Then she got straight to the point. "Look," she began. "I know you didn't break into Mr. Gold's shop, but what I _don't_ know is what you were after. Did he . . . take something from you?"_

_David sighed and folded his hands on top of the table. "Honestly?" He shook his head. "I don't know what I was thinking. Forgive me if this sounds odd, but I saw this . . . replica. Of a windmill. I knew I'd seen it somewhere before, and it helped me remember my life with Kathryn, so I guess I thought . . ."_

_"It would help you remember other things?" Emma supplied. _

_David nodded. _

_The Sheriff sighed tiredly. "Well, the good news is I won't be arresting you tonight, David. As far as I know, Mr. Gold isn't even aware someone tried to break in. But realize if this happens again, you'll be charged with breaking and entering. And I can't let you off with a warning then."_

_David nodded again, once. "Thank you, Sheriff." He pushed himself from his seat, the pie on his plate somehow already gone, and opened the door. "Goodnight."_

_Emma smiled. " 'Night." _

_Only after he'd gone did Emma lower her face to her hands._

* * *

><p>The sun, hanging directly overhead, wasn't needed at noon when Emma decided to wash her car before she left town; the Bug was already yellow—which stood out like a neon sign in the dark, she thought—and it would only pale in the sunlight. It might help dull the color at night, but the imperfection could easily be seen during the day.<p>

Relinquishing her position as Sheriff had seemed like a good idea when she realized it would help Henry if she left town. Only now, she wasn't so sure. Sidney Glass followed Regina around Storybrooke, went wherever she asked him to go, did as she wanted. Giving him the reigns as Sheriff was like handing the badge to the Mayor, in a sense, and though it felt wrong on every level, Emma knew she wasn't the only one that would be unhappy with the arrangement. While Regina obtained control over the new Sheriff, she lost her son to Emma for short periods of time. Regardless of the Mayor's decision, the former Sheriff promised herself she would come back for Henry, see him in secret if that's what it took.

If there was a way, she'd find it.

"Beautiful day, isn't it?"

Just hearing the conversational tone almost made Emma want to spin around and throw the soapy rag in his face. Instead, she caught sight of his smiling reflection in the rear window and covered the space with white suds so she wouldn't have to see it, no longer caring what he thought of her, what he wanted.

He tapped his cane a few times on the sidewalk. "In all my years, I don't recall anyone ever being so persistent in avoiding me."

"Maybe you should've paid more attention," Emma mumbled after a moment, tossing the rag into a bucket of water nearby, some of the liquid spilling over the sides. She picked up the hose from where she'd left it and aimed for the windshield. "I'm sure you missed a few hundred." The former Sheriff sprayed off the front half of her vehicle, then noticing he still hadn't spoken, she paused and half–turned toward him. "You can stand there all day if you want, but I'm not going to offer you anything else."

Gold appeared wounded by the statement—either from the fact that she'd suggested he wanted to make a deal, or that she'd refused to make a deal with him, though Emma was suspicious of the latter—but quickly recovered. "Perhaps not," he agreed quietly. The pawnbroker lifted his cane and turned away. "But at least I'm not running away."

Emma whirled around instantly. "You think I'm _running away_?" She scoffed and took several steps toward him. "I'm doing what's best for my kid," the former Sheriff continued in a lower tone, though still laced with anger. "And if that's leaving Storybrooke, then I'll be damn sure to do it."

Mr. Gold lifted his right index finger from his cane and looked skyward, reminding Emma of someone who was trying to do math in his head. "Yes, but not _with _him."

"No thanks to you," Emma shot at him, resuming her washing of the Bug. "None of this would be possible without your convenient refusal to help. Breaking our deal is bold, even for you, Gold." She smirked over at him when she detected his smile had slipped from his face. "Now, in what world isn't that selfish?"

"As if you have room to talk, dear," said the pawnbroker, ignoring the subtle accusation that he had been conversing with Regina behind the former Sheriff's back. "By striving for what's best for your child, you yourself are selfish."

A heartbeat of silence. "_What_?"

"His happiness is your happiness, Miss Swan."

Emma sighed heavily. "Taking care of my son isn't a game, Gold, it's my _job_—a job I'm not willing to lose. And in case you haven't noticed, I love him."

"Of course," the pawnbroker mumbled. "But it's of the selfish variety. And I think we both know love isn't forever, dearie."

Emma began spraying off the second half of the Bug. "I think you _think_ you know that. But I don't care about power or glory or anything but him. And if that makes me selfish according to you, then I'm the most selfish person on the planet." She tossed the hose aside, finished, but did not break eye contact with Gold. "There. Happy?"

"Not quite."

The former Sheriff pretended not to have heard him, circled around to the driver's side. "You owe me a new mirror, by the way," she said, holding it up before setting it gently back against the door.

This time, he ignored her comment. "I'm afraid there's still the matter of our agreement."

Emma waved a hand toward the apartment. "You want the box, take it."

"No, no. Not yet." She could see he wasn't very keen on the idea of her keeping it hidden at Mary Margaret's place, but Emma didn't care. "You really think you can leave town? Come and go as you please?"

It wasn't a threat, just plain curiosity, his voice stained with doubt. Emma crossed her arms. "_You_ certainly can't stop me," she said anyway, casting a victorious glance at his cane.

Mr. Gold smiled toothlessly. "But that doesn't mean I won't." And he shifted his weight to turn his back on her, cane tapping with the movement. "Good luck, Sheriff Swan," he murmured, almost too softly to catch. He continued down the sidewalk in the direction of his shop, limping along on his own, never once glancing back at her frozen form.

Emma frowned deeply. His tone had been light, as if he'd only been half–serious about preventing her speeding out of town. But she was certain his wishing her well had been sincere, though it had been something of a goodbye too, which made her wonder just what role he had played in her life. He couldn't _miss_ her anymore than she could bring herself to miss _him_. She hated him, or at least disliked him. The feeling was obviously mutual—had always been.

Yet she found herself watching as the pawnbroker disappeared out of sight.

* * *

><p>As expected, Mary Margaret didn't take the news lightly.<p>

"That's not a solution to your problems here, Emma," she replied instantly, as if she _had_ been preparing herself for the moment when her roommate would tell her she had resigned as Sheriff and was leaving for good. "_How_ do you think that helps him? You're in his life now! Going away will just leave him heartbroken!"

Emma shook her head, stuffing the rest of her things into a bag. "I've already made up my mind, Mary Margaret, and I'm sorry. Really. But I have to do this, whether you agree or not." She opened the door and walked down the stairs and out of the apartment, aware of the footsteps sounding behind her.

"But he just got out of school," the schoolteacher pointed out, desperate now. "You can't leave without saying goodbye."

The former Sheriff tossed her things into the backseat of her Bug and grabbed a wrapped object from under the passenger seat. "Here," Emma said, holding it out to her friend. "Give this to him for me. He'll understand."

"_Emma—_" Mary started disbelievingly. She was interrupted by a hug from Emma herself, shocking her temporarily. Anger and disbelief drained out of her on cue, and she hugged back, realizing she really wasn't her mother and that Emma had to make her own choices in life.

Mary Margaret was just glad she'd come to say goodbye.

"Keep an eye on him for me, will you?"

Mary nodded. "Of course." She watched as her roommate approached the driver's side. "Goodbye, Emma." And she turned away, unable to watch.

"Hey."

The schoolteacher stopped.

"If I had the power, I'd give the badge to you."

Mary whirled around, but the Bug's engine had already caught, and Emma was pulling away, vanishing down the street in the sunny car—a vision that had once made Mary Margaret laugh.

* * *

><p>She was nearly on the edge of town when something darted out in front of the Bug and got swallowed up by the vehicle. Emma thought it might have been a deer, or some other animal with a dark fur coat. She slammed on the brakes, turned off the engine, stepped out of the car as if she were in a dream.<p>

The body lying directly in front of the car, sprawled on the ground, wasn't a deer's. It was a human's.

August Booth's, to be exact.


	11. The Writer: Reason and Circumstance

**A/N: If you blink, you'll miss the House, M.D. reference! **

**The Writer: Reason and Circumstance**

Emma found herself falling on her knees at his side, hands instantly fisted tightly into his leather jacket, shaking August with a desperation not even she could place, shouting his name again and again until both her throat and eyes began to burn. Tears blurred her vision until nature's colors began to run together with the stormy gray of the road, creating a far less horrific scene, but even as she stumbled back to her Bug, she knew the change was temporary, that when she blinked and looked back, he'd still be unmoving on the ground. And there wasn't much chance she could help him now.

It didn't take her long to find the small rectangle. Pulling it from a small box, she gripped it like a lifeline, holding down the button on the side.

"Henry," the former sheriff breathed into the walkie–talkie. "Henry, are you there? It's me." Emma hurried back to August, crouching again to check for a pulse. She sighed in relief when she found one and watched his chest rise and fall slowly—a comforting sight that would not last. "I need you to find Mary Margaret."

* * *

><p><em>Mr. Gold smiled when the bell above his door sounded, watched with practiced patience as the visitor stormed briskly to where he stood at the far counter in the pawnshop, a cool breeze brushing past him upon her arrival. Anger and impatience were quite the inseparable pair—a packaged deal when it came to Regina Mills. A deal he'd become was well–equipped to handle. <em>

_She simply planted her feet and glared at him, crossing her arms. "This had better be good," said the Mayor, glancing down at the watch on her wrist. "You _do_ realize what time it is?" _

_The pawnbroker spread his arms over the counter, placing them atop the built–in glass case, staring intently at Regina. "I was quite aware when I made the call, you know," he began trivially, though quickly switched tracks. "Of course, I'm more interested in a small problem I have at the moment, and I was hoping for your . . ."—he paused to find the right words—"utmost cooperation. But, seeing how that's highly unlikely—"_

_Regina saw past his tone and wording instantly, cutting to the chase of her own volition; she wasn't in the right mood for dancing around his business with her tonight. "What is it you want from me this time?"_

_Mr. Gold sighed and took up his cane, slowly making his way around the counter as he spoke, looking at the wood floor. "I'm afraid I've upset a mutual acquaintance of ours, Madam Mayor, and I believe she will soon pass along her influence as Sheriff to you as a result."_

_The corners of her mouth turned up slightly at each end. "And you want me to do what about that, exactly?" Regina asked with feigned innocence, slightly amused in knowing Emma had been pushed to her breaking point, even if she hadn't been the one to cause the breakdown. Though she remained impassive, the Mayor was sure Gold could see the delight in her eyes, but she'd made her dislike for the Sheriff plain to him long ago. _

_"Simply take the badge. Act as if you will do anything to keep Henry from her—as I'm sure you would have without my asking," he added quickly, cutting her off before she could speak. "This will follow with her immediate departure . . . and return, upon which the badge and the position of Sheriff will be returned to Miss Swan."_

_Regina looked incredulous as alarm bells sounded in the back of her mind, and for a moment, her heart seemed to jump up into her throat, realizing he still had his talent of reading people. If he still had magic—but Regina pushed the thought aside. If she didn't have any left, surely _he _didn't either. She raised her eyebrows. "What makes you so sure I'd agree to such pointless terms?"_

_"Because . . ." Gold half–turned from her to reach for something behind him, then fully faced Regina again with deliberate sluggishness, carefully setting a wooden case in front of her on the counter. "I have something you want." He opened the wooden case to reveal the object inside. The pawnbroker pulled back when Regina's hand twitched toward it automatically, as if in a trance. "Ah–ah," said Gold, wagging a finger and shutting the case. He produced a silver key, which he used to lock the case, then slipped it into his pocket. "The key will be yours—_if_ you do as I ask."_

_Regina eyed the box and then Mr. Gold, weighing her options, searching for any signs of deceit in his facial features, in the way he cocooned the case against him protectively. The likelihood that he was setting her up crossed the Mayor's mind, but she had detected a hint of reluctance in his voice. She supposed letting Emma back in town in exchange for the key to his offering wasn't such a bad agreement. After all, Regina could take care of the Sheriff herself without the pawnbroker's help, as she had when she'd first rolled into town with Henry in the passenger seat. "Deal," she complied finally, expecting him to hand over the box._

_"Also," he continued, and Regina's outstretched hand curled into a fist in impatience, "I found this." Mr. Gold slid one of the Mayor's skeleton keys on top of the wooden case. "If you have the urge to snoop around the back of my shop again, feel free to _ask_, as it would save me time pressing charges and involving the police—quite a lot of work, if you ask me." Gold's mouth turned down on one side, mocking her. "And that would be a shame, wouldn't it? Giving Emma a _reason_ to put you behind bars her first day back?"_

_Regina snatched the box and tucked it under one arm, hurrying from the shop, leaving a triumphant Gold behind._

* * *

><p>In all honesty, Mary Margaret expected him sooner.<p>

"Hi, Ms. Blanchard," Henry greeted in a rush, craning to see inside the apartment. "Is Emma—?"

The schoolteacher sighed heavily and leaned against the door. "I'm sorry, Henry, she's . . . gone."

"What?" he asked, doubt and disappointment evident in his surprised tone, and he ducked under her arm to get inside.

"She left about twenty minutes ago." Mary presented him with the gift his biological mother had intended for him to have, closing the door behind him as he took a few steps into the room. "She asked me to give that to you."

He stared down at it for a moment before settling down at the table to unwrap the present. "But she can't have _left_," he said, clearly in denial. "She was supposed to stay—" Henry tore off the wrapping paper and tossed it aside, shocked to see Emma's old Deputy badge sitting idly atop his storybook.

"_Henry?_"

With his hand clutching the Deputy badge, he glanced up at Mary Margaret—the only other person in the apartment—with a frown, sure she hadn't said anything. She only frowned back, confused as well.

"_Henry, are you there? It's me._"

He let out a breath of content as he realized where the garbled speech was coming from. Digging around in his backpack, Henry pulled out the walkie–talkie from its depths, and his eyes locked with his teacher's as they both listened to the sound of Emma's voice:

"_I need you to find Mary Margaret._"

"Where are you?" he said into the little radio.

"_Just—wait. Where are _you_?_"

"At Ms. Blanchard's."

"_Okay, give her the walkie–talkie, kid. This is serious._"

Henry's spirits soared. "Does it have anything to do with Operation Cobra?"

"_What? No!_" A saddened look spread across his face at her harsh tone. "_Uh, no_," Emma said more gently, almost as if she had seen her son's reaction. "_I just need to talk to her, okay?_"

Then something dawned on Henry. "Wait, if we're still talking, then you didn't—"

"_I know. I haven't left yet. Let me talk to Mary._"

Henry happily passed all control over to his teacher, who sat down beside him at the table. "Emma, what's going on? Are you in trouble?"

"_Well, if you call possibly hitting someone who darted out into the middle of the road trouble, then yeah. I'm definitely in it._"

Mary stifled a gasp by pressing a hand to her mouth. "Who was it? Are they alright?"

"_I think so, but I can't be sure. He's breathing, so I guess that's a good sign, right?_" Emma asked, attempting to make the question sound humorous, but her forced laughter rapidly faded. "_Look, I think I can get him to my car. He needs to be checked out, and I'm sure as hell not a doctor._" She sighed. "_I'm coming back._"

The lonely sound of static filled the room, and Mary Margaret listened anxiously with Henry for her to say anything more, though Mary knew the Sheriff was probably helping the guy into her yellow Bug. "Emma?" Nothing. "_Emma_, who did you hit?"

There was more static for a few seconds. Then— "_It was August._"

* * *

><p><em>"It was August."<em>

Three words. Just three. No more, no less. He felt the vehicle make a sharp U–turn and rumble on down the road that lead straight into the heart of Storybrooke, all the while keeping his eyes comfortably closed, appearing to have passed out from a collision that never happened.

He wondered if she had taken the time to notice the lack of blood. No cuts, gashes, or scrapes—something that might seem suspicious later. But there wouldn't _be_ a later for him because he wasn't injured, and if she was taking him straight to the hospital, he had even less time to work with than he had originally thought. He couldn't allow her to take him there, get anywhere close. He had to stop her.

Because that was his job.

So August opened his right eye the slightest bit to see where they were.

A rushing blur of green flew past him continuously as Emma sped onward, and he could see by how straight the road had become that they were close to re–entering town. His eyes snapped open and he reached for her right hand—the one that still held the walkie–talkie—and snatched it from her, ignoring her cry of astonishment. In a smooth motion, he emptied the radio of its batteries, and shoved them into his jacket, safely out of sight.

"How—?" she started, glancing between him and the road several times. Finally, Emma stomped on the brake, put the car in park. "What the _hell_ was that?" she demanded indignantly, shoving him roughly away from her towards the window, full attention on him now. "Did—Did you _want_ me to hit you? Or did you plan for this to happen?"

August swallowed, mentally kicking himself for getting into this situation. "Emma, I—"

"You know what?" she said suddenly, holding up a hand. "Save it. I don't want to hear anymore lies. That's all people seem to do in this town, and everyone wonders why I packed up and left."

August tilted his head, realizing that _had_ been on his mind. "Actually—"

"_Seriously_?" She lowered her head to her hands. "Just as I was starting to trust you. . . ."

Truly curious, August asked, "What do you mean?"

Emma met his gaze again, but it had softened significantly. "Did he pay you? Threaten you? Take your baby?"

August couldn't help but chuckle. "Emma, what are you talking about? No one steals—" And then he understood. "Oh. You mean Mr. Gold."

"Of course I—" she began heatedly, then stopped. "Who else would I be talking about, August? He's obviously got you under his thumb." Emma frowned. "And whatever deal he made with you involves me . . . doesn't it?"

Very slowly, August nodded.

"You could've told me."

"I know."

"But you didn't."

"I _couldn't_, even if I'd wanted to, and trust me, I wanted to."

"You had a choice."

"Yeah," he said angrily, "I did. And I guess I made the wrong one, huh? Making a deal to protect you? What a _heinous_ crime!" August mumbled sarcastically. He held out his hands. "Take me away, Sheriff."

Emma threw her arms out as far as she could in the space of the driver's seat. "Protect me from _what_?"

"From him, from whatever plan he has for you! You made a deal with him too, he told me, so don't say you didn't. Lying is a waste of time."

"And your excuse is . . . ?"

August pushed the passenger door open and stepped out. Ducking his head so she could see him, he said, "Thanks, I'll walk from here." And he slammed the door shut, walking on ahead without her.

Emma was quick to follow him. "I don't need anyone to protect me, August!" she shouted after him, hurrying to catch up. "My deal with Gold saved a family. I _had_ to do it."

"Why?" he asked, whirling to face her again. "Because someone else wasn't there to make the deal for you?" August scoffed. "You really don't know anything about this place." He glanced away. "Less than I thought."

Emma caught his arm before he could turn from her again. "I know a lot more than you, that's for sure. I _knew_ what I was getting into with Gold, I didn't give a damn what happened to me as long as a mother got to keep her child—"

"And they lived happily ever after, right? If only Henry knew about your sudden belief in happy endings." August removed her hand from his arm. "You're just like the rest of them, only worse. You refuse to see what's right in front of you, what's real, what's been here long before you came around." And he fell back into pace along the side of the road.

"Maybe I don't see anything because there's nothing _there_!"

August halted his progress yet again, gazing at her over his shoulder. "Or maybe it's because you've stopped looking altogether." He shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe you'll wake up tomorrow and realize stories aren't always just stories, that curses can exist, that you can do more for Storybrooke than anyone else." The writer stared down at his shoes. "Then again, that's a pretty big leap of faith for you to make," he continued doubtfully. August retrieved the batteries from his jacket and tossed them to her. "There. Tell them it was a joke, a hallucination—whatever the hell you want." And he turned away.

Only this time, Emma didn't stop him.

* * *

><p>It was harder to explain what had happened than she'd thought it would be.<p>

But of course she did not tell Henry she knew. Because Emma didn't think she could handle _two_ people urging her unrelentingly to believe in something nonexistent—in a _book_. Of fairytales. Of brave knights, kings, and princesses. _Stories_ of magic and enchantment that could never hope to be true. That August had obviously talked to the kid was undeniable. That—by acknowledging he too believed—only encouraged her son to continue referencing a storybook and apply it to his bland, ordinary life as the mayor's adopted and only kid.

Emma couldn't blame him, not really. Anyone would want their life to be a fairytale. Only not her, not the one who was supposed to break some dark curse and bring back the happy endings. Because, in her experience, reality had never mixed well with make–believe.

How Henry had managed to convince August, she'd never know.

She told them it had been a joke, that she and the writer had had a good laugh over it so he wouldn't gain two new haters. But Emma didn't think she'd forgive him easily; making someone think you were dead or injured when you were really just trying to stop them from leaving by _playing_ dead or injured wasn't something she thought was funny. It was cruel. It was wrong.

It was just like Gold.

So she should have seen it coming.

She set out to find him the next day after everything had settled down a bit—Henry and Mary went to school, leaving her day free—and, much to her dismay, ran into none other than Regina Mills, smiling pleasantly in that sickly way of hers that made Emma want to wipe the smirk right off the Mayor's smug face.

"Back so soon?"


	12. The Serpent: Knowing

**A/N: Reviews are second only to Mr. Gold/Rumpelstiltskin.**

_There is a darkness deep in you_

_A frightening magic I cling to_

(Snow Patrol, You're All I Have)

**The Serpent: Knowing**

Emma stepped cautiously into the pawnshop with her mental armor securely in place. She took note of the empty space behind each counter, the way warm rays of afternoon sunshine reflected upon each prized possession shelved out of reach or sitting innocently in the open. She faintly heard the bell above her head announcing her visit, as if from a distance, watching and waiting for him to limp into view and flash the toothless, wicked smile that had so often sent her skin crawling. Every instinct told her to turn and run and never look back.

And yet here she was, Sheriff of Storybrooke once more, standing where she'd stood countless times before, most going against her better judgment.

Time ticked by quietly on a mantel clock several feet away, spidery hands mocking Emma's inability to completely decipher the pawnbroker and his web of mind games he'd started but would likely never finish. And all for what—to drive her to leave, only to come back? Or maybe to keep her guessing until she surrendered. Or received a key to unlock all the answers. But even if any of those theories were correct, his motivations had stopped making sense to the Sheriff a long time ago.

One step.

No movements beside her own. Emma frowned, wondering so briefly if he'd missed having a regular visitor that she dismissed it as a thought entirely. And of course it was a stupid question—she'd seen him before speeding out of town, not twenty–four hours before.

Two steps for Emma Swan.

Though, if she were to take a stab in the dark, and if she were confident in her betting capabilities—which were nonexistent, otherwise decent—the Sheriff would've said Gold had been perfectly content on his own. And what reason would she have had to believe he hadn't been? He had everything. And more.

Another.

Blinding whiteness caught her wandering eyes and she gravitated toward it like a fly to honey. A magnificent sword cradled by smooth velvet in an open case, silver blade scattering light like stars across the night sky, inviting her to take hold of the beautifully crafted hilt. The urge to run her hands over the weapon, relish the feel of it between her fingers was overwhelming . . . and extremely tempting. Maybe she'd seen it before—but no, surely she'd have remembered—though it seemed to be calling her name as if that'd been _exactly_ the case.

Emma glanced around again for any sign of the pawnbroker, and even though the room felt too still and quiet, she gradually allowed her hand to snake around the hilt, raising the sword from its plush container, reminding her for some reason of the way the walking dead would climb from their graves in horror films.

Maybe TV past midnight wasn't such a good idea.

"An excellent choice."

The Sheriff nearly dropped the sword, but quickly regained her grip and composure, tugging at the armor to make sure it'd stayed put, listening hard for the footsteps Emma fully expected to hear behind her. She half–turned her head in his direction, jaw clenched. "Maybe to you," she said bitterly. "But not to me."

She could almost see the gleam in his dark orbs, even with her back firmly to him. His light tone had her fingernails digging deeply into her left palm, temporarily carving half–moons into the soft flesh. "I'd hardly consider it a _bad_ one. Brilliant craftsmanship—perfect length, stunning radiance, lightweight," he rattled expertly. "Truly remarkable."

Emma remained impressively still.

"Of course," he finally drawled, knowing she would not speak. A pause in which the Sheriff assumed Gold lifted a hand to convince her he was indeed _not_ guilty, presumably ignoring the fact she couldn't see him. "You have come here under the false impression that I have done something terribly wrong—"

"Which you have," Emma interjected.

"—though I fail to see any proof of your suspicions."

A challenge she could refuse or accept. Keeping in mind that he hadn't denied anything, she took the risk—

Two steps, one accompanied by a soft _thump_, warm breath ghosting over her hair and shoulder, and everything suddenly seemed more focused. "Blind accusations will lead you nowhere, Ms. Swan."

But hers had led her here. To the shop. To the sword. To him. "As would a blind deal."

Gold shrugged. "He agreed."

"You offered."

He spread his arms wide, cane partially elevated from the wood floor. "It's what I do." The pawnbroker finally stepped into her line of sight, brushing swiftly past her left shoulder to immediately duck behind the counter to search for something Emma could only guess at. "I assure you, he knew the terms."

The Sheriff felt her grip tighten dangerously around the sword hanging loosely now at her side, determined to keep her voice steady. "When was the last time you told the truth?" she asked, slightly emphasizing the last three words, anger, impatience, and curiosity all equal in measure.

Mr. Gold peeked at the mantel clock, pretended to think. "About . . . ten seconds ago. Approximately."

Emma's right hand twitched upward automatically, the blade slicing an invisible path through the air. She forced an unwavering hold on the weapon and out of his range of vision as he pushed himself to his feet with the aid of his cane, clutching a scabbard in his free hand. The Sheriff instantly recognized the design of the hilt, which was eerily identical to the one she held, but as it was the only visible part of his sword, she decided to purposefully ignore it. He was just going to push her again to the point where she'd resign, leave, and return for Henry, miraculously scoring her old position as Sheriff—a vicious, inescapable, never–ending cycle. Getting her job back had been an unexpected plus, but Emma highly doubted it was all a coincidence because Regina was . . . well, Regina. The Mayor never did anything unless it benefitted herself in some way.

Much like Gold himself.

Emma mentally discarded her armor and threw up her hands. "You know what? I'm done. You win, Gold. You're completely right about not being too careful." She jerked a thumb over her shoulder, towards the door. "If I leave now, I'll be less tempted to break something. Give me the key, and we'll get this show on and off the road before dinner." She held out her hand expectantly.

He paused for a long moment, studying her, meeting and glancing away from her humorless gaze. Then, before she could blink, he drew the sword and held it over the counter so it captured the sunlight, and Emma realized it was made entirely of pure gold.

The only problem happened to be that she mistook the action as a threatening move against her. Silver met gold with a loud clang as Emma deflected a nonexistent blow, preventing the pawnbroker's weapon from drifting any lower over the counter that acted as a barrier between them. She had simply offered to open his case and do as he had asked of her, and in response, he'd turned and attacked.

That's what she got for taking small wooden boxes from almost–strangers.

A dark shadow crossed over his eyes, abruptly reminding her of that night at Granny's when he'd appeared surprisingly sober for a drunken man. How foreign and strange Gold had seemed to her then, and even here in his own shop, Emma could only pinpoint a few differences between _now_ and _then_. Nothing had changed—but she'd agreed to a favor, accompanied him more than anyone in town would ever dream of—he hadn't changed. _She_ hadn't changed, merely taken a bullet for Ashley Boyd—a hit she hoped would turn out to be worth it. His mouth pulled up at one corner, almost as if he could read her thoughts, but the golden sword didn't move.

"Did you really think I'd harm you, Sheriff Swan?" Gold gestured to his injured leg. "Surely you could beat me, and at the least, outrun me. What have you to lose?"

_But you already know all the answers._ Emma had suspected he'd been working with Regina for quite some time, but could never prove it, and even though he'd addressed her as the Sheriff, it didn't necessarily mean he _knew_. She suppressed a sigh, releasing a long string of breath through her nose. How long would she continue to lie to herself? To everyone, to _anyone_? Could she lie to Henry? Mary Margaret?

August?

"What reason would I have," she began steadily, "to believe otherwise?"

Perpetual silence.

Always so quick with words, Emma fully anticipated a response from him. But perhaps he didn't have anything to say. She knew she should feel proud to be the first Storybrooke resident to ever stump the pawnbroker, and any other day, she might have gloated a little. Although his eyes appeared to melt slightly at her words, they hardened again just as instantly—something he could easily flip on and off like a light switch. The smallest twinge of guilt momentarily plagued the Sheriff, and she attempted to brush it away by swallowing hard, lowering her sword in defeat. Though he'd made no further moves against her, the pointed pain had undone any intent she'd had of striking back.

The sword clattered loudly despite her gentleness as she set it down, blade lifeless and no longer directed at him. "I don't know how or why, nor do I think I want to." Emma pulled the Sheriff badge from her belt and held it in her open palm, gazing between the object and Mr. Gold, wondering if she truly had lost her mind. "And you deserve a lot worse, but . . . thank you."

Stunned—not by the fact that she had put two and two together, but that she'd expressed _gratitude_ for something he had done—Gold lowered his own sword so it rested by its silver twin on the counter, the weapons pointing in opposite directions, his limbs and tongue frozen otherwise. Then the moment passed, and he was himself again, mask comfortably back in place. "It is foolish," the pawnbroker advised, "for you to believe I made the arrangement selflessly, Ms. Swan. And, presuming that were true, you and I would be in far deeper waters than those we currently stand in."

An image of a hunter green canoe floated into her thoughts, but then that didn't make sense. She hadn't believed for a second that he'd done any favors for her. "Where did you get those?" Emma asked, mainly to fill the agonizingly quiet atmosphere he'd created. She was only somewhat curious.

Gold laughed once. "These old things?" He lifted the golden sword and sheathed it after a few seconds of admiration. "I'd have to check my records," he answered, storing the sword back in its proper place. The pawnbroker's shoulders slipped up and down once as he replaced the silver sword in its case. "Must not have been much of a story to the pair, I'm afraid."

Emma couldn't explain the sudden need to defend the swords' story. "You're telling me nothing here has any sort of history?" she asked ardently—successfully turning the tables so the decision of accepting or declining to answer the challenging question rested squarely on his shoulders.

"Everything has a history, Emma," Mr. Gold was quick to reply. "But only some are worth remembering."

Of course. Of_ course _he'd make it about her. He'd known of her past and her troubles with the system, and even though she had known about that in advance, it stung far worse than anything she'd said to him. Most of his subtleties were simple to figure out now—and that last one had damn well been meant for her—but some still remained a mystery. The man himself continued to remain a mystery to her, and perhaps would permanently be, but it didn't explain Gold's ill–timed hostility and abrasive openness.

But Emma was tired of running away before getting any answers. Come to think of it, that was all she'd really managed to do whenever she visited. So, instead, she composed her features like a pro—ready, willing, and patient.

Mr. Gold's brow furrowed. "Why don't you take it?" he queried, pushing the case toward her. "Free of charge."

"Why?" Emma asked, confused.

The pawnbroker grabbed his cane. "Why not? You seemed quite interested in it, as far I could tell. For years, I've tried selling them, and not once did I find the right owner, or even one remotely engaged at the prospect. You, on the other hand, would be a charming match."

The Sheriff shook her head in disbelief at the course their conversation had taken. "What would I do with it?"

"That, of course, would be up to you." And he pointed at her, smiling.

* * *

><p>Regina had decided to wait a full thirty–six hours before sitting down at her desk to further examine the wooden case the local pawnbroker had so willingly and recently given her.<p>

She'd immediately suspected him to be lying upon entering the pawnshop late that night, thinking he had called her in just to annoy her, get her away from Henry. The Mayor had thought over every single possibility and had finally concluded that he couldn't be playing her, have an ulterior motive. Regina had seen it with her own two eyes—just a short viewing, really—and knew it had to be real.

But where was the trickery, the deceit? Returning Emma's badge, giving her the job back, congratulating the woman she hated most and not even having to _mean it_—that was the only price she'd ever have to pay? It had been easy. Too easy.

Still, she'd taken the money and run.

Knowing Henry was reading comic books in his room, Regina pulled the ring of skeleton keys out of hiding and pushed one into the silver lock, gave it an experimental twist. The box seemed to release an audible breath as the lock clicked open, and her mouth curled upwards in a triumphant smirk. Seldom had her keys to the town failed her. She had been careless that day at his shop, looking, searching, hoping to find exactly what he'd given her. And Gold had eventually handed it over, but seemed unhurried to produce the key. So, giving him ample time—the first half of the afternoon—the Mayor had waited, only to surrender to her own curiosity.

Lifting the lid, impatient fingers wasted no time in snatching the treasure that lay inside.

* * *

><p>Mr. Gold watched as the door closed and Emma Swan disappeared from the pawnshop, carrying a long case, surprised for one of the few times in his long life. No one had ever thanked him. For anything.<p>

Well, no one that'd mattered. And even then—

But that wasn't important now.

He'd known before she'd stepped inside that Emma Swan would be leaving with the sword, bewildered, unable to provide any sort of explanation for her acquiescence to his offer.

How could she not when it had been her father's?

How could she not when she didn't even _know_?

Wiping the dust from the countertop with a towel, Gold raised a hand in farewell when the Sheriff had stopped outside the door, uncertain. She gritted her teeth at his smugness and vanished.

He chuckled.

Knowing made all the difference.


	13. The Hope: Trouble Is

**A/N: Quick update. Well, at least for me.**

_I'm desperate for changing_

_I'm starving for truth_

_I'm closer to where I started_

_I'm chasing after you_

(Lifehouse, Hanging By A Moment)

**The Hope: Trouble Is **

Emma, hands shaking, fumbled with her small ring of keys outside the door to the apartment, thumbing through them to find the right one. She couldn't ever remember having much trouble unlocking it before, but with an oblong case in one hand and a boggled mind from what it contained, maybe she shouldn't be so surprised at the problems she was having.

Common sense told her she couldn't take the case to the station—where would she put it, anyway?—and she feared Henry might stop by after school on his way home, undoubtedly find and question her about its sudden appearance. And she'd feel guilty about keeping it a secret from him even if he didn't. Rushing from Gold's shop, the Sheriff passed her workplace without so much as a glance, hand feeling super glued to the handle of the heavy luggage, hoping not to meet too many residents of Storybrooke on the way. But she couldn't avoid the curious eyes of a few onlookers, so she quickened her pace, boots clomping loudly on the sidewalk and fixed her gaze on a point far in the distance.

Finally finding the correct key, Emma shouldered open the door, inevitably banging the case clumsily against the doorframe in her haste to hide it before Mary Margaret arrived. She cursed under her breath and backed into the room, pulling her new purchase with her—although, _technically_, she'd gotten it without handing over a dime. But she still owed him that favor, so in a way, it didn't count.

She'd just pay for it later.

"_Emma_?"

The Sheriff whirled around, startled, losing her grip. The case clattered nosily to the floor, handle slapping against the side. The sound echoed around the open room and bounced off the walls, echoing back to taunt her immobile form. Hazel orbs locked onto the figure of Mary Margaret by the sink, then shifted to a smaller one beside her roommate, who smiled upon seeing Emma's shocked expression at being caught. "I, uh . . . I was just—" She crossed her arms and cleared her throat, ridding herself of all traces of surprise, as if she had meant to run into them with a mysterious black case. "When did you get here?"

"Ten minutes ago," Henry answered instantly, eyes never leaving the floor. "What's that?" he asked, shrugging off his backpack and crossing the room. He set it by the table and bent to inspect the unfamiliar object at his mother's feet.

Emma picked it up before he could reach to open it. "It's—nothing. Just some old thing I found." She realized the explanation sounded lame, even to her own ears. But—

"Where did you find it?"

The kid was persistent, she'd give him that. "Outside. By my Bug."

Mary Margaret frowned deeply. "I didn't see anything when we walked in." She looked to Henry, who returned her frown and shrugged, confirming he hadn't spotted the case either.

Mental facepalm. "Well, I just wanted to stop by before heading into the station. . . ." Emma trailed off, hoping to distract them long enough to avoid any and all pointed questions, feeling like she was being interrogated. If she could at least shelve Henry's curiosity for the time being, it would be a miracle.

"_What_?"

Mary Margaret blinked, a concerned smile matching her tone. "Emma, that's—" she began slowly.

"I know." Almost subconsciously, Emma fingered the badge at her hip. "I wasn't expecting it either." And, recounting her bumping into Regina in as few words as possible, the Sheriff told them how she'd landed her old job.

"So . . . what does that mean?" Henry took a seat at the kitchen table, thinking hard as he absorbed the information.

Emma shrugged. "Back to rescuing cats from trees, I guess." She noticed Mary Margaret hadn't spoken, but the schoolteacher was staring at her, intent in proceeding with caution, debating how to phrase what she wanted to say next.

"You'll be . . . staying, then?"

The Sheriff went from feigning nonchalance to harboring guilt deep in her chest, twisting her heart in ways she'd never experienced. Leaving suddenly seemed extremely selfish, childish. But that didn't mean she wouldn't eventually have to someday, so she just said, "We'll see." At least she wasn't making any promises.

Pressure around her waist alerted Emma that Henry had clung onto her for dear life and probably wouldn't be letting go anytime soon. "I'm glad you came back," he mumbled into her jacket, and the Sheriff glanced uncomfortably between her son and Mary, suspicious the schoolteacher might follow suit. Emma quickly untangled Henry's arms, still not used to all the physical contact, glancing down at him with a small smile, which was more for his benefit than her own.

"You got your Deputy badge?"

"Yeah . . ." Curiosity arched one eyebrow, lips parting to ask what she was up to.

"I've got a mission for you," Emma continued, meeting Mary Margaret's gaze, saying everything she couldn't put into words. She thanked the schoolteacher for all the times she'd looked after Henry, for letting her stay at the apartment when she had nowhere left to turn. For just being there. Mary nodded in understanding, and Emma turned her attention back to her son. "It's Operation Cobra related."

* * *

><p>"So . . . let me get this straight. You want me to talk to <em>Mr. Gold<em>?"

"Yes."

"Why?" Henry struggled to keep up with Emma's brisk pace as they headed for the station, nearly jogging, the Sheriff's hands no longer burdened by the weight of the black case he'd badgered her about. "I mean, don't _you_ talk to him already? I thought—"

"It doesn't matter," Emma ground out firmly, hands balling into fists at the mention of her association with the pawnbroker, relieved she'd locked the sword in her Bug on a whim. "We need to find out who he is." She paused at the front doors of the station, pulling out her keys.

"How?"

A dull click and the door opened. The Sheriff held it at arm's length so Henry could pass through. "Your book," she replied, falling into step beside him. Walking into her office, Emma forced herself to remember a night she'd pushed to the back of her mind—the forbidden section. She tossed Henry the keys and gestured to the desk outside her office space. "Second drawer from the bottom. Brass key."

Henry unlocked it and produced a rectangular box. "What—?"

"Take out your book and look for that," she stated flatly, meaning the wooden case Gold had given her, not having—nor willing to make—the time to explain. "If you can't find it, look for a teacup." Feeling as if she'd lost her mind, Emma moved fully into her office, staring unseeingly at the phone, a flashing button indicating a message she wasn't going to listen to. She'd never told Henry she didn't believe, and she still didn't, but Gold must have had the storybook in his possession at some point, or so she'd suspected. But she was tired of guessing. She wanted to _know_, and the book could point her in the right direction. "It would be chipped on the rim."

Henry's brow furrowed, one side of his mouth pulling down, and his head swiveled so he could see her. "You mean Beauty and the Beast?"

Emma abandoned her anxious tapping on the desk and stepped out of the office to stand by her son so she could read over his shoulder, though she saw no pictures of the famous fairytale. "Where?"

Henry flipped through the pages, having the various stories memorized. "If Mr. Gold has the cup, then that means—" He stopped, fingers running over the middle of the book, where it looked like several pages had been torn out by rough hands. "It–It was right here. . . ."

"It's okay," Emma assured him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. She kneeled next to him. "Look, I believe you. You're onto something, Henry, but we can't give up now. We have to finish this. For Operation Cobra," she added to make the task sound especially important to him.

Henry nodded.

"Okay, here's what I need you to do . . ."

* * *

><p>"August!"<p>

The writer drained his mug and gazed at the small figure of Henry rushing up to meet him at his regular booth in Granny's diner. "Hey, kid," he greeted unenthusiastically.

"I need your help."

August smiled. "I think that's what biological moms are for."

Henry set the book down on the tabletop. "This is serious." He flipped to the right section, glancing around to make sure no one was paying them any mind. "See? No pages."

The writer grimaced. "You tear them out?"

Henry shook his head.

August thumbed the few stray pieces of what remained of the missing pages. His blue eyes hardened to ice. "I could take a few wild guesses, but I think I know which story is missing."

"So you'll help me break into Mr. Gold's pawnshop?" he whispered conspiratorially.

"Henry, you don't need those pages. We both know—"

Emma's son cut him off. "It's not the pages we need. It's a silver key."

* * *

><p>August shook his head. "Why do you need a silver key again?"<p>

"Because," Henry began exasperatedly, repeating something Emma had told him, "silver locks usually have silver keys. And the lock on the box is silver, so—"

The writer held up a hand. "Okay, point taken." He tilted his head at the back entrance to the shop from their vantage point across the street. "I go in there and look for the key?"

Henry nodded. "Yup."

"Does it really have to be me?" he asked, pointing to himself.

"No one else would volunteer," the kid replied. "And, besides, I don't think you could distract him long enough for me to find it. Plus, I'm ten."

"So?"

"_So_," Henry mimicked, "I'm short. I won't be able to reach it if it's on a shelf."

August laughed. "You're one crazy kid, you know that?"

"Hey, you know what that means, right?" Henry smiled, figuring the writer didn't have any clue what he meant from the blank expression on his face. "I'm bunking with you."

And then the kid was off, racing to the main entrance to the pawnshop, leaving a smirking August to rush around to the back.

Henry counted to ten in his head and then turned the knob, stepping into the cool room. As he heard the bell, he thought about how easily his plan was working—well, _their _plan, too. His and Emma's plan. One that didn't include August. So Henry hadn't said anything to him about Emma, just told him he'd found a case at the station. And he hadn't breathed a word to Emma about finding August.

Everything was going according to plan.

"Henry," Mr. Gold welcomed cheerily from behind the counter. "How are you?"

He just hoped nothing went wrong.

* * *

><p>Mr. Gold smiled warmly, answering all of Henry's fired questions about various objects about the shop. The strangeness of the situation didn't faze the pawnbroker, even surprise him in the least. He let Emma's son believe he had the upper hand because it would only benefit himself in the long run. Henry wouldn't find what he was so obviously searching for, not when the key was in his very own backpack.<p>

Unknown to Henry, of course.

"Looking for anything in particular?" He posed the question carefully.

"No, just looking."

"Something for your mother?"

"Nope."

"For you?"

Henry shook his head.

"For—me?" Gold looked thoughtful and hurried on before the kid could speak. "Which, I suppose, would defeat the purpose, buying me a gift from my own shop. . . . Ah, well." He shrugged—theatrics had always been a specialty of his—and sighed. "Maybe next year."

Henry stared at him like he had a few screws loose.

Emma's son truly had no idea.

"It's getting late," the pawnbroker announced, pointing with his cane at his favorite mantel clock. "Wouldn't want our dear Madam Mayor to be upset, now would we?" He headed back for the counter to finish some inventory before closing. "You'd best be on your way."

"Mr. Gold?"

"Yes, Henry?"

"I have a . . . question."

Gold crouched, with some difficulty, behind the counter, eyes falling upon all the trinkets he'd collected over the years, avoiding the golden sword. "Ask away, dear boy."

"Are you—?"

The air seemed to crackle with electricity in the short space of quiet before Henry got up the courage to give it another try.

"Are you . . . Rumpelstiltskin?"


	14. The Serpent: All That Glitters

**A/N: First, I've got to ask: How _awesome_ is season two?**

**Second, I apologize for how insane and confusing this story has become. I currently have a sequel outlined and ready to go, I just have to find the time to sit down and start writing. In the next story, I've decided to focus solely on Emma and her point of view. I find when reading a book, I enjoy third person limited. Somehow I've started switching almost constantly from limited to omniscient. Whoops. **

**And lastly, I'm fully aware that my absence from this site may have sent even the most dedicated of readers on a quest to find a much bigger and better OUAT fic, but to any and all who are (and still) taking a look, thank you. If you're feeling review-y, please let me know what you think.**

_My secret side I keep hid under lock and key  
>I keep it caged, but I can't control it<br>Cause if I let him out he'll tear me up, break me down  
>Why won't somebody come and save me from this, make it end?<em>

(Skillet, Monster)

**The Serpent: All That Glitters**

Goosebumps trailed up and down both arms in the blink of an eye. The room's atmosphere suddenly felt twice as dense, weighing down on a pair of strong shoulders that belonged to a crouched figure. Melting chocolate orbs widened in shock before slowly hardening to muddy ice, stomach rolling with the growing sensation of heat; fists clenched tight, knuckles abruptly paling, mind spinning in a whirlwind of colorful anger, right leg screaming in protest as he snatched up his idle cane, made to stand and face the young accuser—the savior's son. The _Mayor's_ son. Henry Mills. Henry Swan. _Emma Swan. Regina Mills. _The names meant everything and nothing, serving major and minor purposes in the deals he struck with their owners, though important nonetheless. Names were his specialty.

But this boy—this boy he _knew_.

Gold swallowed hard several times, lips parting to speak.

Light from the nearest lamp began flickering violently out of control, antiques on every surface rattling faintly in their rightful places. Henry glanced between the various shaking light sources and treasures, frowning. Mr. Gold gazed skyward at the ceiling upon hearing the high, continuous squeal of wind, vibrating wooden boards leading his eyes all the way to the front of the pawn shop, sliding down over the lightly tinkling bell to the front door. The Mayor's son looked to the pawnbroker as shadows danced across the walls, focused hazel orbs upon fallen leaves skittering noisily across concrete pavement—something that had also intrigued Gold. In near silence—cane barely the ghost of a whisper against the floor—the shop's owner limped stiffly past Henry to get a better view. Brows drawn tightly together, the pawnbroker's outstretched hand gripped the handle, twisted. Met gusty wind that practically blew the door in. A tiny form slipped by into the darkness, spied stormy clouds overhead, hair and jacket blowing wildly as he stood, confused and awed under a flickering lamppost.

Mr. Gold tugged at the door until it clicked closed. He pushed away from the handle, gaze locked on a point above the form's head. "It's here . . ."

But the boy wasn't listening. "The curse," he mumbled quietly, realization ripped from parted lips by an unforgiving gust of wind. Henry turned to face Gold, excitement plastered across his face. "It's broken!"

The pawnbroker shook his head, impatiently brushing hair from his face. "No," he replied hastily. Gold gestured with a general wave of his hand to their surroundings, eagerly scanning the distance, calmly watching debris tumble towards him. Henry watched the pawnbroker step only just hesitantly in his direction, silently taking note of Mr. Gold's thoughtful expression. "This—this is no curse."

"Then what is it?"

He had felt it when he first touched the door handle. Electricity had shot up his arm at the contact, infusing his body with it. So long had they lived without it, so long had he thought he'd never be able to use it again, so long had he hoped he could. And now it was here. He hadn't the faintest clue why, but at that moment, nothing mattered more than its presence. Nothing mattered more than vengeance that was long overdue.

The pawnbroker stepped back into the shadows, pulling Emma's son with him.

"I don't know," he lied.

A shower of sparks and the lamppost exploded, sprinkling down like fiery rain where they had just been standing. One corner of Gold's mouth twitched up into a smile.

Henry, who flinched, didn't see.

* * *

><p><em>She was in the woods again. <em>

_Running, running as fast as she could. Emma sprinted in the comfort of her boots this time, pursuing the dark shadow flitting between tree trunks. High–pitched giggling flooded both her mind and ears, driving her mad, breathing heavy, labored. Here, she was stripped of all power; here, he made the rules, controlled the ending. Being Sheriff of Storybrooke never made the slightest difference in the outcome of her recurring dream. Emma knew it well. _

_He ran, she ran. _

_The devilish being had Henry, her parents she hadn't been able to track down. They were trapped—would still be if Emma didn't catch the perpetrator. In her haste, branches snapped, rocks and other obstacles kicked and shoved aside. The closer she got, the longer it took to dodge trees and clamber over conviently–placed boulders and logs. Not a single drop of heroic blood ran in her veins, but she'd be damned if she sat by idly and watched them die. Yet Emma knew the ending, had lived it enough times to know that no matter what she did differently, he would always claim victory. _

_She ran, he ran. _

_White, blinding lightning flashed before her eyes, struck the boulder barely five feet from her. Emma skidded to a halt, autumn leaves crunching underfoot. Nestled safely in the gray material and obviously waiting for her was a brilliant sword, radiating with power. She recognized the design in an instant. Grabbing the glowing hilt without a second's thought, Emma yanked the weapon from the stone, preparing to bolt through the forest. _

_Yet when she raised her eyes, they fell upon the patient face of Mr. Gold instead, barely two inches away._

* * *

><p>Emma jerked violently awake, succeeding in knocking the back of her head against the desk lamp in her office. It crashed to the floor, all light vanishing from the room, and the Sheriff cursed, realizing the phone had started to ring. Mumbling a few more choice words, Emma applied pressure to her head with one hand, answering the phone with the other, eyelids falling over sleepy orbs.<p>

"Hello?" she grumbled.

"_Emma, listen to me_," a voice said firmly. "_I don't have time to explain, but you have to do something _now_, before it's too late—_"

"August, I'm not going on a date with you," Emma replied in a huff.

"_What?_" he asked, briefly distracted. "_No, that's not what I meant_," the writer continued in a rush. Emma heard him release a frustrated sigh. "_Mr. Gold has Henry._"

In the blink of an eye, Emma sat up, focused, any and all pain forgotten. The Sheriff glanced through the partially–closed blinds to see swirling clouds and watched ferocious winds tearing telephone pole wires free, sparks showering the main road, which was almost entirely covered with debris. The wires jumped like striking snakes, dangling in the air. "Where?"

"_I'm here at the shop. Don't worry, he can't see me. Our plan was interrupted._"

"What do you mean, 'we'? You aren't part of this!"

"_As much as you think I'm not_," said August, "_I am. Henry told me about the box, Emma. He told me everything._"

A small frown had appeared on her face, and it only deepened with this news. Then a serious, confident look overtook Emma's features, and she mercilessly ripped a ring of keys from her belt, setting the cord phone aside. Thumbing through the collection, the Sheriff found the one she had been looking for and opened the tall metal cabinet behind her desk. In less than sixty seconds, Emma was loading shells into a shotgun, flipping it expertly closed, holding the weapon as if she had a million times since becoming Sheriff of Storybrooke.

"_Don't_," the writer warned, catching on even from blocks away. "_You can't kill him_."

"Who said anything about killing?" Emma replied, phone back at her ear. "I'm tired of playing games. I have questions, he has answers. If he wants to retain use of his other leg, he'll tell me what I want to know."

"_Emma, wait—_"

But she didn't wait. The Sheriff put the phone back on the hook and stormed out of the station. After a moment's hesitation, Emma set off in the opposite direction of the pawnshop.

Within five minutes, her bright yellow Bug was parked in the back alley behind Gold's shop. She figured August must have still been inside, waiting for her or to make a move to save Henry. Emma kicked herself mentally for not waiting—as August had so _kindly_ requested—because how could she know what sort of situation she'd be swooping in on? Despite distrusting him, the Sheriff had learned enough about Gold to know he wasn't a serial killer. Or a kidnapper. So of course he wouldn't hurt Henry, regardless of the circumstances.

Besides, where could he _go_? As far as she'd noticed, nobody visited Storybrooke, and nobody left it.

Emma closed the driver's side door as soundlessly as possible, eyes shifting nervously to the back door of the pawnshop. Gold tended to sneak up on her when she least expected it, and even now, she wouldn't put it past him to do just that. The man unnerved her; some times more than others. Yet she had been unable to get used to the feeling, no matter the amount of visits, calls, and brief late–night dinners. He could project everything he felt just by a glance in her direction, though those looks were rare, if not extinct. A monster, a man—it didn't make the slightest difference. He was Gold, a pawnbroker, a weaver of words. Under his spell, he could make her believe anything. Trust anyone.

The Sheriff, shotgun in hand, gripped the weapon until she was sure it would crumble to pieces. Maybe August had overreacted. Maybe this was a mistake. One wrong move, one wrong accusation, and Henry could be scarred for life. Emma didn't want that. For anything in the world, she didn't want Henry to be afraid of her. Her job had never been much in the way of life–threatening, and she couldn't afford for it to starting being that way now.

Fumbling, fumbling, fumbling to open the door. To open the case. To hold the sword steady. Struggling, warring, debating on whether to leave the gun behind.

Jumping when a hand came to rest, warm and foreign, on her shoulder. She whirled and brought the blade up to meet warm flesh below a strong jaw. Burning, revenge–seeking hazel orbs finding the familiar face.

Which happened to be smiling. "It suits you," was all he said.

Away went her storm of uncertainty and whirlwind of confusion, and in came the gentle breeze of calm reckoning. She released a breathless sigh, lowering her weapon without hesitation. "Where is he?"

There was no need for specification. "Around front."

"And Gold? Why does he have Henry?"

August extended his hand, palm outward, facing her. Asking her without asking to remain calm. "We don't have any more time to waste. You're going to have to trust me on this, Emma, whether you like it or not." The writer held out his other hand, which had balled into a fist. He gazed at her for confirmation she was ready and waiting. She had eyes only for his hand. Slowly, surely, he uncurled his fingers to reveal what Emma had waited and searched for ever since Gold's drunken escapade:

An elegant silver key.

* * *

><p>"If the curse isn't broken, then . . . how do you remember?"<p>

Gold half–smiled, meeting the young boy's gaze. "Your mother was quite gracious to me in the other land—not that she had any choice, of course. She granted me a good life here and my memories, and in exchange, she got what she wanted." He lifted one hand and shrugged as if the fact made little difference. As if it had always been meant to happen.

Henry frowned and took a slow step backward. "It was you." Emma's son shook his head in disgust. "This whole time, _you_ were the one who gave her the curse. Everyone here doesn't remember who they _really_ are because of you! My mom, Emma, Archie—everyone thought I was crazy, and it's all your fault!"

The pawnbroker lifted a finger. "All magic comes with a price."

"But I was _right_," Henry pointed out. "Fairytales aren't just kid stories, they're real. Every character in my book really exists. Magic. Is. Real."

"Ah, yes, but what use is it if no one believes you, my dear boy?" Gold countered. "Did you _really_ expect them to? Especially our newly–appointed Sheriff, who has no faith in your stories of happy endings and enchanted castles. Emma must _see _something, Henry, before she can believe in it. Otherwise, we'll be here, as we have been, forever. Time shall move, but the town will remain, the people never aging. Storybrooke, cursed." _Magic alive._

"But I believe, and you believe. And _that _makes it real."

Mr. Gold opened his mouth to respond, but he didn't get the chance. Cold steel kissed the skin of his neck, and the pawnbroker suppressed a shiver, turning his head ever so slightly to catch a flash of blonde hair. "You know, I think my kid's right, Gold. And I think it's about time you shared some of that insightful knowledge with the rest of us." To emphasize her seriousness, Emma pressed the blade a little deeper. He couldn't prevent the chuckle from building up in his chest and bursting forth into the air. He could feel her confused glare on his back.

Gold turned calmly, slowly, to face her, sword resting against the side of his neck. He smiled. "It suits you, my dear," he practically whispered, lifting a finger to trace the outline of the blade.

Emma slapped his hand away. "This isn't a game anymore, Gold. You've wasted enough of my time. Leave Henry alone or—"

"Or you'll what? Sword me to death? Please," the pawnbroker scoffed. He gestured to Henry. "I've done nothing to your boy, Ms. Swan. I hope you realize that. You could have saved yourself the trouble of bringing backup. I'm just one man, after all."

Henry frowned. "Backup?"

"But it's no matter," Gold continued, smile a mile wide. He held up a hand and snapped his fingers.

All at once, Emma's world crashed down around her as Henry was flung against one of the shop's windows and pinned there by some invisible force. He called for her once and she moved to help, but Mr. Gold shoved out an arm to block her, and from around the side of the pawnshop, the Sheriff was forced to watch as August seemed to glide through the air before slamming into the display window next to Henry, arms and legs pinned in the same fashion. Emma had just demanded Gold let them go when he snapped his fingers again. Both Henry and August fell into a soundless sleep, heads lolling to the side, eyes closed. The Sheriff called their names several times, and when she received no response, Emma took a step back and cast her sword aside, anger boiling deep within the pit of her stomach.

Gold heard the steel skitter across the concrete sidewalk, but took his sweet time facing Emma again. "Ms. Swan," he drawled finally, meeting her flaming glare fearlessly, mouth twitching up at one corner. She knew he was in control and could nothing to change that. "I believe we have some unfinished business to discuss."

At first, the pawnbroker thought he was seeing things, but he kept his eyes on her as a smile of her own gradually conquered her features. "I agree."

All at once, Gold's world crashed down around him as Emma produced a second weapon from her belt. Jagged and curved, she gripped it tight and held it at the perfect angle for him to read the engravement along its length. He didn't need the light of the sun or to even read the carved word. Because he already knew what word—what _name—_had been engraved there long, long ago:

_Rumpelstiltskin._


	15. The Savior: Is Not Gold

_I'm sinking inside  
>And the maps and lines are broken down tonight<br>I swallow my pride  
>But we're drowning in the ocean and it's tearing my heart open<em>

_We're high then we're low, first it's yes then it's no, and we're changing like the tides_

(Battleships, Daughtry)

* * *

><p><strong>The Savior: Is Not Gold<strong>

All fight and fire in the eyes of the Dark One vanished.

They stood facing each other for a long time, Emma holding the dagger, Gold gripping his cane with waning vigor he failed to hide. Honeyed light casted their shadows out into the quiet street, stretching them into oblivion. She waited for him to speak, to explain as wind carried the electric pulse of magic through her hair. He didn't. Because he would wait for her to do the same. But no words threatened to strangle him. There had been ample opportunities for her to attack, to move towards Henry, to run away, to ask _why._ Somehow she knew just by watching his still form how much the object must mean to him. Emma didn't know enough about his past to label him a madman, but she couldn't simply ignore the name on the knife. She had been curious before; now was a completely different story.

She carefully took the jagged end of the dagger in her other hand and soundlessly offered the weapon to him.

Mr. Gold's anxiousness evaporated, a dry laugh escaping him. "This is not quite the scenario I imagined to find us in, Ms. Swan."

"I don't care," she snapped instantly, taking a step closer. "Take it. I don't want answers or hot chocolate or hamburger casserole. I'm tired of this game, Gold. You win. I'm taking my son home." She held out the knife, and when he made no move to take it, Emma let it fall at his feet. Henry and August would wake up—she _would_ wake them somehow—and they could all go home to leave Gold in the dust. She tried to brush past him, but he snatched her arm with breathtaking speed and pushed her back a few steps.

"We had a_ deal_."

"And I broke it," Emma countered angrily. "Or probably did. It doesn't matter anyway because this whole elaborate scheme of yours has no purpose. You wanted me to deliver a knife with an imaginary fairytale character's name engraved on it? Well, now you've got it. Go fangirl over a guy who never existed. He was supposedly a coward anyway."

Gold's jaw clenched. "No one breaks deals with me, Emma. I thought you understood the terms of our agreement."

"How can I when I don't even know what you _want_?"

"Isn't it painfully obvious, my dear? I don't believe I owe you any explanation."

Emma stared incredulously at him before folding her arms defiantly. Of course she would remain stubborn and defy him until she understood exactly what he desired of her. For a moment, he could only stare back, trying desperately for her to comprehend his wishes through telepathy. Despite being the savior, she didn't believe. She didn't believe in the world from which her parents originated, in magic, in happy endings—or in him. Because she had lived in this world for twenty-eight years and not the Enchanted Forest. Because she needed proof. Because she had to _see_.

And he would make her.

Gold slowly turned the handle of his cane clockwise once, watching Emma carefully. Almost instantly, a fiery whirlwind of purple smoke shrouded him from view, sending the savior to her knees as strong gusts of air nearly sent her flying backwards. She held up a hand to shield her eyes, desperately searching for the unconscious forms of Henry and August. Emma caught sight of them still plastered against the window. The wind had not stirred their deep slumber and likely wouldn't be anytime soon. Emma bowed against the tornado of smoke until the wind abruptly ceased. When she dared to raise her head, she could see the knife lying exactly where she'd dropped it just a few feet away. As if reading her mind, the dagger rose into the remnants of the smoke—harmlessly levitating there, bobbing in and out of the purple haze—before the pointed end turned and made a beeline for her. There wasn't time for her life to flash before her eyes, only enough to shut them. After a pain-free moment had passed, she opened them again to find the knife hovering before her, handle facing her. As if _waiting_ for her.

A dark figure emerged from the smoke, and Emma grabbed the knife on instinct. Where the hell had the purple mist come from? And where was Gold?

Seconds later, the smoke had dissipated enough for her to see the dark form clearly, and Emma got her answer.

"Hello, dearie," Rumpelstiltskin greeted in a cheery, high-pitched voice, casually twirling Gold's cane between the fingers of his right hand. He smirked wickedly at her, watching the emotions change rapidly on her face as she took in the sight of him. "What do you think?" He posed ridiculously in the hopes of coaxing a smile out of her. She said nothing. It seemed that she had frozen, her eyes locked on his. He could almost _see _her thinking, questioning her sanity—questioning _his—_closing in on herself. Collapsing. The devilish smirk fell from his face instantly, and a snap of his fingers (and far less smoke) turned him back into Gold, the suit-wearing pawnbroker with a bad leg. "Emma?" he prodded gently. No answer. Gold tried again only to receive the same result. Sighing, he tossed his cane aside and grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. "I have been called many things in my life, Miss Swan—a coward, a thief, a monster—but never a liar." When she still didn't say anything to him, his grip on her tightened slightly. "_Think_, Emma. You already know everything! You read the book, you know who I am. What cause would I have to lie to you _now_?"

Emma swallowed hard, replaying her past conversations with the pawnbroker in her mind. Maybe something had hit her in the head during the unexpected windstorm. Either that or Gold was just a magician with multiple personality disorder. "You call _that_ a magic trick?" Had she somehow fallen asleep at the station again? If she really _was _dreaming, then she wouldn't be able to feel anything, and neither would Gold.

So she punched him.

Gold instantly stumbled back and raised a hand to his jaw, staring incredulously at her. Emma shook her hand to try and ease the pain. _Nope, not dreaming_. She moved faster than he expected her to, pushing him back against the unoccupied window of his shop, raising the dagger to his throat. "What kind of shit are you trying to pull here, Gold? Is this funny to you? You think hypnotizing my kid into unconsciousness is impressive?" Gold's lack of retaliation was really starting to piss her off. She yanked him from the wall only to throw him back into it. "Tell me what you _want_!"

The pawnbroker could only search her eyes for understanding before the command forced his tongue to move, and then he was laughing, laughing, laughing at her, deeply insulted by her stubbornness—her _unwillingness_—to make a leap of faith. Did she realize that as long as she possessed the dagger, he was at her mercy? "When are you _ever_ going to accept who you are, Miss Swan?" His hand grabbed her wrist and guided the dagger towards his heart, his eyes never leaving her face. She resisted, but he held the knife steady, hovering right over the spot, his voice shaking slightly as he revealed the truth: "You know the tale of the Dark One, Emma. This is your destiny. You are the savior, the child of Snow White and Prince Charming. By taking my life, you will end the curse that has been cast over this town along with my own. Both the power and magic of this dagger will die as I do."

Too many things were starting to make sense, fall into place. He had been drinking that night at Granny's because he'd been trying to forget. The scare with the gun had been his way of getting her attention so he could call her out on her owed favor. He'd invited her over, tried to help her, _befriended_ her to gain her trust. All to ensure she would carry out her end of the bargain. It had to be her, only her. Emma Swan was the chosen one, the baby in Henry's book, the savior who would rescue the town from their curse and save the day every day until she didn't have to. All this time he had _known_ but never told her, _knowing _the time wasn't right. But they were running out of time. Things had started to change upon her arrival. If she didn't believe, Regina would begin to suspect and retaliate. Gold had forced her to believe. She had no choice. Stabbing him in the heart would end it all, wake Henry, August, and the rest of the town up. They would remember, and Regina would run and hide. They would rule Storybrooke.

And Gold would be dead.

Emma shook her head, unable to free her wrist. "I'm not killing you, Gold."

"It's what I asked of you, Sheriff. You _owe_ me this."

"Then forget the deal! There has to be another way to break the curse. Right? _You_ created it!"

Gold released a long, frustrated sigh. "There is no other way, Emma._ I_ created it, which means _you_ have to kill _me_ in order to reverse it's effects. All magic—"

"Screw magic!" she yelled, cutting him off. "And since I'm here, screw you too! Because I didn't ask to be the savior, I don't want to be the savior, and the only way I can be is to break this curse. To do that, I have to kill you. Is that what you're saying? Because my son's pinned to a window and my parents are the same age as me and you're a magical, giggling imp! _What the hell, Gold?_"

He shrugged against her grip and grinned. "Small world, isn't it?"

Emma shattered, breaking into a million mad pieces. His hand released her wrist (or had she pulled it free?) and her right hand drew back. If she had wanted to, she could have spit fire and set Gold's suit alight. She could have laughed in his face. She could have dropped the dagger and walked away and never looked back. But she didn't. Some mad piece of her took control, and before she could stop herself, Emma was kissing the man responsible for the curse she was destined to break. It wasn't gentle or nice or something she'd even thought about doing, but he'd angered her, pushed her to her breaking point. And she'd cracked and done the dumbest thing possible, yet she couldn't stop herself. Gold was finally the one to push her away and step back so the newly awakened Henry could rush into her arms. Henry. Alive. Awake. How could she ever hope to begin to tell him what had just happened? She noticed August standing, stiff with shock but awake, staring at her accusingly and obviously disgusted. What must he think of her? Had he seen everything? Had Henry?

Emma almost didn't want to know.

Henry asked her something, but she wasn't listening. One by one, doors to the surrounding buildings were opening, Storybrooke residents were stepping out into the street, hugging and crying and laughing and calling names she recognized. Happy. Reunited. The characters from Henry's book. All of them.

"Mom, you did it," Henry said slowly. His voice grew excited as he continued: "You broke it! You broke the curse!"

The Sheriff of Storybrooke frowned, eyebrows scrunching together, mouth opening in disbelief, but no words came to her aid. Yes, the curse seemed to have been broken, but she hadn't used the dagger. The people shouldn't be remembering. They should be afraid to come out this close to dinner time, pulling their shutters closed. Not rejoicing. Emma turned to ask Gold how any of it was possible, but he'd already disappeared, leaving behind a single wisp of purple smoke.

She looked down at her empty hands, feeling oddly calm that he'd taken the dagger with him. Now that the curse had been broken, she didn't have to kill him. She'd never have to.

But she did owe him that favor.

Which meant he would be back to collect.

* * *

><p><strong>Believe it or not, this is the final chapter! I know, it may seem strange to leave it off here, but I've got a sequel all lined up and ready to go. I apologize for not updating this for so long. It's been a crazy year. I hope the wait was worth it and that you will stay tuned for the sequel. If all goes well, I should have the first chapter up by the end of this month. Feel free to review and yell at me! I know I left a lot of questions unanswered. :) And thank you guys so much for sticking with this story!<strong>


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